


Desolate

by Eutony91



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Battle of Hogwarts, F/M, Post-War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2018-08-14 12:21:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8013526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eutony91/pseuds/Eutony91
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'She found herself, ever the inquisitive, wanting to know everything. Wanting to know motivations, understand the man who sat there, desolate. Desperate to know why he'd done all the things he had done.' Battle of Hogwarts Post-War DM/HG Draco/Hermione Dramione.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on FF.net under pen-name 'Eutony'.

Her full breath whooshed from her lungs as she spotted him, filthy but bright white, bleeding and broken on the destroyed Grand Staircase.

She had been trying to find Harry – both she and Ron, before he went to the Forbidden Forest like Voldemort had asked. Her heart clenched again at the thought, almost turning away from him. But something stopped her.

It was disturbing to see him. It was disturbing to see him in the way that he was – in the defeated, crumpled, torn, singed and bleeding mess. Draco Malfoy had always been a constant at Hogwarts – the bully, full of bravado and smugness and cold calculating poise. Aristocratic, as though he truly believed he was the Prince of Slytherin.

He was curious, Hermione thought, as she watched him through the small portion of stone banister that was still intact, a level down from him. All their school years together, and Hermione had always thought he truly was cold hearted. He was – she was sure. But … he protected Harry. In the Malfoy Manor, he protected Harry. It didn't fit. All of his actions leading up to that point … at least, of what Hermione saw. But, now, here – Malfoy looked empty, alone. She wasn't sure she had _ever_ seen Malfoy alone when they had been schoolmates. Always with some cronie or another – Goyle, Crabbe, Zabini, Nott, Parkinson … two of their number had been killed, Hermione suddenly realised. One had been Crabbe – they had both watched him be engulfed by the flames from his own wand. The same flames that had almost claimed them all – almost claimed Malfoy and Goyle, too, had Harry and Ron not saved them. The second had been … had she been Malfoy's girlfriend? There had been a time when Pansy Parkinson had been his girlfriend, yes. And she, herself, had just watched the boy's Godfather die at the hands and teeth of Voldemort and Nagini.

She watched the young Malfoy a little more closely, then, watching as tears poured down his white, ghostly face. He was in pain – in pain as much as her own side. He was not like his brothers – not like his Father whom he idolised. Not like a Death Eater. Branded but disconnected. She found herself, ever the inquisitive, wanting to know everything. Wanting to know motivations, understand the man who sat there, desolate. Desperate to know why he'd done all the things he had done.

She wondered if his parents were alive. She wondered if hers were alive. She took a few more steps up the rubble-strewn staircase until she rounded the corner she had been hiding behind.

From her new position, she could see him shaking, his wand, which was not his own, cast to the side. Her own, since the very start of the horrible battle, had been clenched in her fingers, so hard that the wood had imprinted on her hand. And here Malfoy was, uncaring where his wand was, amidst hell. He didn't seem to care whether he died. He didn't look up when she sat a few stairs below him, turned, watching him.

He was bleeding profusely from a wound on his shoulder, dripping blood on the stair. He had another gash on his chest, the blood soaking into his dark suit, making it even darker. He appeared to have hit his head, too, and blood had made a section of his white-blonde hair a sickly looking pink.

He was clever. Bright minded and book-learned. Gifted beyond her in Potions, certainly. She admitted this, despite herself. Second in their year, second only, Hermione cringed internally, trying to be humble, second only to her. He knew healing spells. His diswant to cast them spoke more words to Hermione that she wanted them to. Tears filled her eyes as she hugged herself, biting her lip. She wanted him to speak, but she was scared – scared of this Malfoy, unlike any version of him she'd seen. The constant, steady, cruel Draco Malfoy who had taunted her, belittled her, called her horrific things. She wasn't sure she could hear anything but 'Mudblood' come from his lips.

Too many things had changed tonight.

The blood from his shoulder started to spill onto the next step down, and Hermione gasped. The sound made him look at her. She avoided his eyes.

“Let me help you,” she told him, her voice stronger than she felt. He said nothing. Instead, he watched her, tears still rolling silently down his face. Carefully, she rose to her feet, and ascended towards him. Crouching at his side, she lifted her hand to touch his shoulder. He didn't flinch. She almost wanted him to. She pushed her sleeves back a little, before tearing his jacket a little more to better see his mutilated shoulder. It had been a powerful curse – she wondered vaguely, from which side?

Whispering every healing spell she knew under her breath, the gash finally knitted together, looking angry, white and marked forever. She let out a breath she had been holding, being so close to him, before cleaning his blood from the floor – there really had been a lot of blood. She sat, and still, he said nothing. He was still watching her, though, with those silver-grey, unnatural looking eyes. Shakily, she drew her knees up towards her chest, still sitting there beside Draco Malfoy, a boy who had watched his own aunt torture her – carve 'mudblood' into her arm with an enchanted knifeblade. She held her left forearm subconsciously.

“Why?” He spoke suddenly, softly, painfully. She recoiled a little. Her lips opened unconsciously, even though she knew she had nothing to say. He nodded subtly, almost imperceptibly, in acceptance to the answer she hadn't even given. He had drawn his own conclusions – Hermione desperately wanted to know what they were, so much that it scared her. He had turned from her, again, and Hermione turned her terrified eyes back to him. His tears hadn't stopped. She had hoped they had been caused by pain from injury, but it was clear it was much more than that.

“Your parents ...” she whispered. Malfoy locked eyes with her, fear alight in fiercely silver eyes. She had never truly looked into them. He didn't know whether they were alive, it was clear. She didn't either. He realised she didn't, he was still petrified. She bit her lip, unable to look away from his eyes, caught by his agony.

Tears spilled from her eyes at the prolonged contact, and he watched her curiously. Whether he realised it was for his pain that she was crying, she didn't know. He opened his mouth, as if to speak. Closing it, he watched her a little longer, touching his healed shoulder. Eventually, he found his words, and croaked them. “I've been wrong my whole life.” Hermione didn't speak, her heart clenching at his words. She half wanted him to continue, half wanted him to sneer. But he continued. Taking a shuddering breath, and looking at his feet, he breathed, “I was taught that … that the Pureblood families were sacred. That muggles and muggle-borns were filthy. That the only way to stop our sacred blood from being diluted and polluted with filthy blood was to bring the Dark Lord to power. That he would treat us like the Royalty we apparently are.

“I don't feel like a fucking Prince, Granger. Do I look like one?” He choked, as if he were about to be sick. He swallowed painfully. “He was going to kill me. Kill Father. Make me watch while he – Mother, I … He wanted to take his time with Mother. I did what he wanted. Anything to save my Mother. Anything to repent my Father. I _tried_. But I'm weak. Pathetic. I couldn't do it – I couldn't kill Dumbledore. I couldn't kill anyone.” He hung his head, sobbing.

Hermione bit her lip, hard, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. Her cheeks flushed in anger and pity for him. “It is not _weak_ to be incapable of murder, Malfoy.”

He shook his head with it still hung, before looking up at her, enraged. “Don't you _dare_ give me your Gryffindor, self-righteous _bullshit_ , Granger. It _is_ weak to be incapable of protecting your own damn _family_.”

Her eyes searched his for as long as he let her, before he dropped his head again in defeat, breathing heavily. She spoke gently, this time. “You didn't make your choices, Malfoy. You didn't choose your side. It was chosen for you before you were even born. You are not weak for not living up to those choices.” He was crying again.

“You don't get it,” he cried. She placed her hand on his arm, and, again, he didn't flinch. “You _don't get it_ ,” he said with more strength as he looked at her again. And she didn't. She probably never would. The shame that Malfoy displayed was impossible to look at.

He looked down at her hand on his arm, and caught sight of the angry, red brand his aunt had viciously carved into her arm as she had tortured her in front of him. He looked as if he was about to be sick again, and Hermione began to draw away her arm. But he stopped her, a cool hand on hers. She couldn't make eye contact with him in his almost intimate act. He turned her hand over, so that the underside of her arm was under his gaze. A finger ran across the still-tender skin, the blade having magical properties that she had been unable to research and therefore had been unable to heal properly.

“It won't heal,” he told her gently, knowing what she had been thinking. He hesitated, before pulling up the sleeve of his suit and shirt, revealing to her his dark mark. He watched her as she looked down at it, painfully. She realised she had wished he hadn't had one – that she truly believed he wouldn't. It wasn't like the other dark marks she had seen, though. “Aunt decided mine needed amending,” he explained. As black as the mark was, Hermione was still able to read the word 'traitor' carved across it.

“Because you protected us?” Hermione asked, tears welling in her eyes again.

He didn't answer her, though, as he ran his finger across her arm once more, before withdrawing his hands from her. It was as though he'd remembered himself. She took stock of him, noticing his bleeding chest again. She pushed his jacket to the side, and opened his shirt a few buttons so that she could see the flesh-wound. Muttering a spell again, the skin fused once more with barely a mark. Her fingers found his buttons again, but he gently pushed her hands away. His own fingers deftly clothed himself again, and he shook his head. “I don't deserve your help.”

“Thankfully,” she commented, a little coolly, “I decide who deserves my help, Malfoy. Not you.” He watched her, as if her words were alien to him. “You're clever enough to perform these on yourself,” she explained. “I couldn't let you ...”

Malfoy broke eye contact with her. “Thank you,” he told her. Hermione's chest tightened painfully at those words coming from Draco Malfoy's mouth. Before she could reply, he had pulled himself up, limping a little. Retrieving his mothers wand, he turned back to her. “I hope ...” he swallowed, battling with himself. “I hope to see you again, Granger. On a better day than this.”

Hermione looked up at him tearfully, more tears streaming down her cheeks. With those words alone, she knew he was better than his beliefs. That his beliefs were changing. She couldn't help but smile at him through her tears. He smirked a little back, and then turned to walk away. But she called after him, “Don't let the choices you didn't make break you, Draco.”

He stopped walking for a second, silently, before half turning back. “Don't let yours get you killed.” He made eye contact again, his eyes full of meaning. “The world needs people like you, Granger.” He swallowed painfully again, before rushing away.

She sat silently where he had left her, drips of blood still present where he had been, chest constricted in pain, until Ron found her. His worried eyes told her they had been unable to find Harry, and she took both of his hands in hers, closing her eyes, hoping he hadn't done what they feared. Hoping they all got out of this alive. Hoping they _all_ got out of this alive.

-break-

_A/N: So, despite being a Draco/Hermione fan for_ years _, this is my first attempt at them. Technically it isn't exactly a pairing, although there's an undercurrent from Draco (as, I feel, there always has been). But I always think that jumping into it with them is completely unnatural and jarring._

_I also feel like Hermione was always supposed to be with Ron for a time, so their kiss did, of course, happen at the Battle. I'm still a believer in 'EWE', though. Screw them getting married._

_I haven't decided whether this will be a one-shot, multi-chapter, or a series. Let me know what you guys think. Also, let me know what you thought of the story._

_Thank you sincerely for reading._

_Eutony x_

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Okay, so I decided on a multi-chapter. But with time jumps. I hope you enjoy it.

As it turned out, the next time Hermione saw him was little better for him. Little better for herself, truth be told. Not at war, not anymore. She didn't feel better, though. She doubted many people did, always in a perpetual state of mourning. Mourning lost friends, lost family, lost lovers. A whole populous of people were grieving.

There were still two distinct sides. Survival of the second Wizarding war did not excuse you from the law. She had read in the Daily Prophet of the leagues of people – some expected, some unexpected – tried and released, or, in many cases, sentenced to the Auror-run Azkaban prison. Even with the absence of the Dementors, Hermione shuddered at the thought of being sent there. There were pictures of the prisoners in the Wizarding paper daily, sentences listed, crimes admitted to. It was hard to read. The names of people she'd known in the 'victims' section. Generalised obituaries, as there had been too many deaths to speak about people individually.

Hermione clutched her bag tightly in her hand, her other gripping the rail, biting her lip as the lift shuddered backwards and diagonal, then down, stopping twice to let on and off several other worried looking adults. It had been something she had noticed since the war – the worry had never left her magical comrades' faces. It had been two and a half months since the Battle of Hogwarts. Two and a half months since her best friend effectively died for humanity, Wizarding and Muggle. The fact that Harry was alive still astounded her. The odds had been stacked against him, against them all. Voldemort had almost won.

The lift ground to a halt, deep in the Ministry. The black-green marble of the corridor was menacing, and Hermione steeled herself, her heels scraping and snapping against the tiles as she made her way to the highest door on the floor. Biting her lip harder, she stepped around the door, sliding into a row of seats near the back in the large, circular courtroom with the shackled chair in the centre. Opening her bag, she retrieved a file, eyes passing over the name on the front grimly as she lay it on the table in front of her.

Reaching up, she tightened the bun of her hair, and someone patted her on the elbow. She turned to the row of seats behind her.

“Oh. Hi,” Hermione said in confusion, looking up to the green eyes of her best friend. Green eyes underscored with dark blueish purple bruises that came with insomnia. “I didn't know you'd be here.”

“Same could be said for you,” Harry said, curiosity clear in his tone. He leaned toward her, saying gently, “You know this is Malfoy's trial, don't you?”

Hermione bit her lip again, nervous. She didn't want to tell Harry about her seeking out Malfoy's lawyer, asking to be a witness, giving them reasons for him not to go to Azkaban, where his father now resided. “I know, Harry,” she said softly, her eyes sliding from his.

“I'm testifying in his defense,” Harry stated, though his face still told Hermione that he was conflicted about it. The fact almost made Hermione smile. “Ginny is _not_ happy.”

The notion of smiling flew out of her mind, for the mention of Ginny made Hermione think of Ron – something which, for the moment, made her quite unhappy. For _Ron_ had been displeased that Hermione had been planning to do the exact same thing as Harry. “The Weasley's appear to have more in common than just red hair,” Hermione told him. “Ron isn't pleased with me, either.”

“You're -?” Harry asked, shocked. “Hermione, Malfoy was awful to you.”

Hermione shrugged, looking up to Harry again. “He was awful to all of us, Harry. Does that mean he deserves to go to Azkaban?”

“Well … no – no, I guess not.”

“He is a bully. He is not a murderer.”

Harry nodded thoughtfully. “The odds are stacked against him. Father convicted as a Death Eater and in Azkaban, Mother on house arrest, Aunt a notorious Death Eater, Dark Mark branded, his own Manor having been used as Voldemort's stronghold … prisoners, including ourselves held in their dungeon, some killed …”

“He's … He's only eighteen, Harry.” At Harry's dark look, Hermione conceded to her bad argument. “I know – I know. He's the same age as us. But Harry, it's not fair to assume that people the same age as us would be able to do the things we've done – _you've_ done. He was branded at _sixteen_. He was Marked as a _punishment_ to his Father – as a human sacrifice. Like _you_ were, Harry.” Harry's gaze softened. “He hasn't had a chance to make his own decisions without his Father's influence. He's only eighteen. If they send him to Azkaban now, he doesn't have a chance – he'll die in there, or at least be driven insane. He's only eighteen.” Hermione felt her throat closing at the thought. Just as Harry opened his mouth to speak again, the courtroom was called to order.

Draco was frog-marched into the courtroom, flanked by two Aurors, neither of whom Hermione knew, and the remaining mutterings fell silent. Malfoy's invisible bonds were released as he was pushed down into the chair, and chains slithered around both wrists and ankles. He didn't struggle. He sat in acceptance, his face impassive and grey. Dignified. As aristocratic as someone can look in chains.

Draco Abraxas Malfoy's list of alleged crimes were read, none of them, to Hermione's relief, were murder, although attempted murder of Albus Percival Wulveric Brian Dumbledore was listed (Malfoy visibly flinched). Most were accessory, enabling and use of the Cruciatus and Imperius Curses. With a jolt, Hermione sat up straighter when _her_ name was mentioned, along with Harry's and Ron's. Attempted _murder_. Malfoy sat in silence, objecting to none. His eyes were trained to the middle distance, meeting no-one else's. The prosecutor took the floor, and the nervous bubble that Hermione had felt since she heard about the trial of her classmate rose into her throat.

 

-break-

 

Her nervousness had never abated throughout the trial, and even when Harry slipped his hand into hers in the lift on the way back up to the Ministry atrium, it settled like bile in her throat.

“You okay?” he asked gently, bending towards her ear so the surrounding wizards could not hear. Hermione nodded subtly, turning wide eyes to her friend, hoping he wouldn't judge her too badly. “Did Ron read your testimony?” Hermione faltered.

“No, he didn't,” she whispered, voice wavering slightly. Harry nodded, giving her a knowing look.

“I think … you did well, you know. I think you were a lot of the reason why the council went with that sentence. It was a solid argument. I wish I had the same eloquence.”

Hermione bit her lip, dropping her eyes to the floor. She was relieved that Harry understood why she'd said the things she had. She knew that Ron would never be so understanding, and she had been right in keeping it from him. It had taken them both by surprise that Malfoy was being charged with war crimes against _them_ , though. Attempted murder? The Fiendfyre hadn't even been conjured by him – it had been Vincent Crabbe. They both testified as such, and allegations had been dropped. In the end, Draco was only charged with the use of Unforgivables – one Imperius curse on Kathryn Bell in his attempt to kill Dumbledore on Voldemort's orders, and one Crutiatus curse. Draco's account of the circumstances of his use of this curse still sent chills down her spine. His lawyer had spoken on his behalf.

_'My Aunt. After the capture of Harry Potter and his friends. She believed I was responsible for their escape, that I had aided them in some way. That I had protected them. She turned her wand to me, cursed me … my Mother tried to stop her, but Bellatrix Lestrange was … She would have done anything to please the Dark Lord. The altercation between my Mother and my Aunt ended in Bellatrix cursing my Mother – the Cruciatus curse, yes. I regained some strength, retrieved my Mother's wand from the floor and cast the same curse on my Aunt, to stop her attacks on my Mother. I do not regret my decision. My Aunt was … a special kind of insane – dangerous, lethal. She killed and maimed countless numbers of people. I was unfortunate enough to witness some. It wasn't the first time she had cursed my family. I do not regret my decision.'_

Strangely, Hermione felt proud of him. And guilty that he had endured the same pain she had at the hands of his Aunt Bellatrix because of them.

His sentence was lenient, considering his familial connotations and his own testimony and plea. Actually, it had been Hermione's tentative hope. He had been sent back to Hogwarts to complete his final year – but in this time, his true punishment, he was not permitted to go home to the Malfoy Manor. He was to remain in the castle grounds at all times, and he was not permitted to contact his Mother.

As the sentence had been read, his face became more grey. She could tell that a year without his Mother would be difficult for Malfoy – after all, he had done all he had to protect her from harm. He thanked the Wizengamot, none the less, as he was lead out of the courtroom. He knew it was a lenient sentence. His eyes had swept the stands as he left, meeting Harry's eyes, then hers, and she was frozen, just like she had been while testifying, his confused gaze fixated on her.

Harry's hand squeezed hers as they reached the Atrium, the old fountain having been restored to it's former glory, evidence of the Death Eater's presence in power visibly removed. Hermione turned her eyes to Harry's tired ones. “Want stay at mine tonight? The Burrow ...” Hermione flinched again at the inadvertent accusation in his words. She couldn't face Ron, and he didn't want to face Ginny, either, it appeared. He had been staying at Grimmauld Place, but Hermione herself had been living in The Burrow. She hadn't been able to locate her Obliviated parents – somewhere in Australia, but she wasn't sure where they were. Living in their empty family home just made her sad. So she had been living in Charlie's old room with the Weasley's. Ron had loved this arrangement, originally, but they had been fighting more and more, recently, their proximity not necessarily a good thing anymore. The fighting had intensified when she told him she was planning to come to the trial.

“Thanks, Harry,” Hermione said, softly.

“Drink, first? I think we both need it,” he smiled in a sad sort of way. Hermione nodded in agreement, and they made their way to the Leaky Cauldron by Floo.

After stepping out of the grate, Hermione brushed soot off of her grey dress, grimacing at the coverage. Looking around the room, she caught a flash of very blonde hair for a split second, before it vanished through the door to the lodgings upstairs. She had quickly convinced herself that it couldn't possibly be …

Harry stepped out the grate behind her, shaking his hair free of copious amounts of soot, and gave her a lopsided smile as he ordered them two glasses of Firewhisky. They moved over to a table near the fire, and each took a sip, wincing as it burned down their oesophagi.

Harry looked over to her. “You okay?” he asked, obviously noting her nervous demeanour.

Hermione nodded slightly, uncertainly. Weighing her options, she decided to tell Harry what she had been keeping from all of her friends these past few months. “I spoke to him. At Hogwarts. The last time we were at Hogwarts.”

Harry's mouth twisted a little, his dark circles looking more prominent – for the memory of their last visit to Hogwarts was the reason he wasn't sleeping. “At the battle?”

Hermione nodded slightly again, her eyes looking down into her Firewhisky glass, swirling the slightly smoking liquid around. “He was bleeding.”

“You helped him,” Harry said, as though he expected little less – but there was no accusation in his tone. He didn't seem to condemn her for her actions, something she knew Ron would've – forgiveness was not his strong suit. Hermione shrugged a little, non-committally, but Harry nodded in understanding. “He probably didn't deserve your help,” Harry commented, just like Malfoy had, and Hermione couldn't help but laugh, if a little humourlessly.

“That's what he said.”

“He redeems himself little by little every day,” Harry smirked.

“He didn't make his choices.”

“I know,” Harry told her. “Just like I didn't make mine.” Hermione's hand found Harry's again, across the table, so acutely glad that he understood – that she wasn't insane. That her emotions weren't ruling her rationality. They smiled at each other. “You were so passionate today,” Harry told her. “You must've thought about it a lot. The trial. Malfoy.”

She nodded in response. “He deserved a chance to change people's minds about him. After all, he's changed his. And deep, ingrained xenophobic discrimination like blood status is very difficult to unseat in one's mind.”

“As is a grudge against the Slytherins, and the boy who tormented us, and more specifically _you_ throughout our years at school,” he gently reminded her, pointing toward Ron again. “He hates him because he loves you, Hermione.”

Hermione bit her lip, taking a long drink from her glass, not answering him. It had been something she was intensely beginning to doubt. But she didn't want to talk about that with Harry – she didn't want to make it awkward for him. “Have you thought any more about the letter Professor McGonagall sent to us?” she asked, referring to the letters of invitation back to the school to complete their Seventh year they had been sent. But mostly she was trying to change the subject.

Harry hesitated, before nodding. “Yeah, I have. I'm … Kingsley Shacklebolt sent me an owl. I start Auror training in a month.”

“Wow! Congratulations!,” Hermione beamed, leaping up to hug him. “That's wonderful, Harry. You deserve it.”

“Thanks,” Harry blushed, and Hermione beamed as she sat back down. “What about you?” he asked, bringing them back to her original question.

“I already sent McGonagall an owl,” she told him. “Last week. Ron … well, if he was unimpressed with me about coming today, it's nothing on what he thinks about me going back to school.”

Harry winced a little, imagining his reaction. “You need to do what's best for you,” Harry said. “But we'll miss you,” he added. Hermione smiled and squeezed his hand gently over the table again.

“Thanks, Harry.” The support she felt from him helped her feel more comfortable with her decision. She needed to go back to school. She had been away from education for over a year – she felt she had so much still to learn. She didn't feel prepared for the real world, yet – she still wanted to be cushioned from it. It hadn't been kind to her and her friends, had it? Who could really blame her?

“Just ...” Harry struggled, obviously fighting with his words for a second, before finally voicing them. “Be _wary_. Of ...”

Hermione bit her lip, knowing who he meant. Be wary of Draco Malfoy. Like she wasn't already. Wary was an _understatement_. But the empathy she felt for him was … well, largely overwhelming. Hence her inability to let him bleed on the Grand Staircase.

“I know,” she said in a small voice. “In all honesty, I didn't think going back to school _could_ be a sentence. I thought he would be under house arrest, like Narcissa.”

Harry shrugged, without an answer. Then, over Hermione's shoulder, Harry stared at someone. Hermione turned with interest but quickly turned away. Draco Malfoy had just descended the stairs and was making his way over to the bar. “I suppose that makes sense,” Harry mused. “He's not allowed to go home.”

Hermione bit her lip, taking another long drink from her glass, draining the remainder, before sneaking another glance to Malfoy across the room. He had his back to them, his hair contrasting sharply with his black suit. He sat on a stool, nursing a drink.

“Should we go talk to him?” Harry suggested, obviously hating his own thought as he wrinkled his nose.

Hermione shook her head slightly, turning away. “He's still Malfoy, Harry. He's still a bully. He still hates us for being Gryffindors. Still hates you for being The Chosen One. Still hates me for being a Mudblood,” Hermione bit, sadly but with conviction. “There's still defined sides,” she said, voicing her thoughts from before the trial. “We're on one side, and I'd bet my life he still resides on the other.”

“I guess you're right,” Harry answered, darkness shadowing his brow. “Do you think he'll have to stay here until September? Because we're going to have to find a different pub ...” he grumbled, swallowing more of the Firewhisky.

Hermione smiled at Harry's trivial thought. “I guess so.” Her smile dulled as she watched Malfoy at the bar, his head hung heavily over his drink, his shoulders hunched and weak, his platinum hair looking distinctly less bright. Every scrap of the confidence and self-assurance that had made Draco Malfoy had disappeared without a trace from the shell of the eighteen-year-old. She worried her lip, wanting to see if he was alright. She hoped he had some friends left, somewhere, who could help him through his heartache (after all, she knew what it felt like to lose both parents, too). She wasn't sure how many of his friends had survived the war, or how many had been sent to Azkaban. She hoped he had someone. Anyone.

“Want to head home?” Harry asked, touching her forearm to bring her from her thoughts. She turned her worried eyes to him, and nodded, trying to smile, as they both downed the last of their drinks and headed into the courtyard to apparate.

 

-break-

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hope you enjoyed this. This is a sort of setting up chapter. Bear with me – it will be a Dramione fic after all.
> 
> Please comment and let me know what you think.


	3. Chapter 3

Hermione had returned to the castle she loved. To the books she loved. To the professors she idolised. To the person she knew she had to be. Her first month back had been tumultuous, but she knew it was the place she had to be, for now.

 It was hard for Ron. She knew before she agreed to come back, that Ron wouldn’t be happy about her return to Hogwarts – because Ron had always known that he would never come back. Since the death of his brother, Ron was dedicated to staying by his family’s side. He had been helping George through his terrible grief for his twin and running Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes in the interim. Hermione absolutely understood Ron’s view. She absolutely did. She missed Fred terribly, as they all did. Ron wanted to keep all the people he loved near him. He’d told her that that included her. He wanted a life with all the people he loved. He didn’t want to lose anyone else. Why would he want to return to the place where it all happened?

She understood. She did. She knew that Ron’s incredibly protective want to defend them all was commendable. She knew that. Maybe that was Ron’s role after the war – she just knew that her role was not to be dependent on him. Hermione was not a woman who needed protecting. She needed her own life. She needed her books and learning. He should understand that. He should know that already – it was the person she had always been.

She had tried talking to him. She really had – all her rationality and calmness had only frustrated him more. By the time she had left for the train, they weren’t even talking.

She missed him terribly. Harry too. Hogwarts, though wonderful still, in its repaired state, just wasn’t same without her two best friends in the world. And although she loved spending time with Ginny, Neville and Luna, it just wasn’t the same. Writing letters to Harry was fine, but without them there to tease her and laugh with her, and ask her for her help with their homework, it really didn’t feel like the home it used to.

She had written to Ron. She had pleaded with him to understand. He hadn’t replied. That was her first proper relationship over, she supposed.

As bad as she felt, and as much as she missed them, she couldn’t imagine how Malfoy felt. Only two other Slytherins had returned to complete their education at Hogwarts – Blaise Zabini and Millicent Bulstrode. Neither, as far as Hermione knew, were especially good friends with Malfoy – although she had seen Zabini with Malfoy a fair few times, she had always gathered that Zabini was always aloof in his friendships. As far as Millicent Bulstrode went, she had seen a few scathing looks directed toward Draco on a significant number of occasions and had always wondered why she hated him. Either way, Draco was without his friends, too. But he was much worse off than her – two of his close friends had _died_. The two who remained, Nott and Goyle, weren’t the most academic of people, and so had chosen not to return. She had seen him alone in the corridors. They hadn’t spoken or even made eye contact since his trial, months ago.

She sighed, pulling herself from her thoughts as Ginny nudged her in the ribs, frowning at her inattention.

“Are you even listening?” Ginny snapped.

Hermione bit her lip, guilty. “Sorry,” she admitted.

Ginny huffed, rolling her eyes. “Are you coming to Hogsmeade with me to see Harry?”

Hermione bit her lip again. “I don’t want to intrude,” she said.

Ginny laughed a little. “You won’t be. I promise. Harry misses you. He wants you to come.”

Something about the set of Ginny’s shoulders tipped her off that she was hiding something. She sighed. “Does Ron know?”

Ginny’s neck went pink. “Does Ron know what?”

“That you’ve invited me to gate-crash your meet up with the boys?”

Ginny faltered, then caved. “No. He doesn’t. He needs to get over this, Hermione. Surely you can see that.”

Hermione leant her elbows on the table in front of her, her forehead in her hands. “Ginny, I’ve tried. I swear I have. I hate how Ronald and I are. I would give anything for us to be back to normal. But what really is _normal_ for us? There has never been a time in our friendship where we weren’t in some sort of mortal danger!”

“But you love him, right?” Ginny asked apprehensively.

Hermione nodded, then shook her head. “I don’t know – I know I love him, and I know I love him in a different way from how I love Harry, but ...”

Ginny nodded, eyes full of disappointment. “You should still come. Because as far as I know, you and Ron aren’t even talking right now, and that’s not right. You guys are friends, first and foremost. Harry needs both is best friends to not be fighting. He needs you both right now.”

“That’s the worst part, though. We’re _not_ fighting. He isn’t talking to me. He hasn’t replied to any of my letters. He hasn’t spoken to me in almost two months, Gin. He’s not going to forgive me for leaving him. Because that’s how he’s looking at it – that I left him.”

Ginny grimaced, knowing she was right. “You should still come. At least to see Harry. Ron just needs time.”

Hermione, lifting her head from her hands, fixed Ginny with a look. “It’s going to turn into a fight, Ginny.”

“So? Listen, I can handle my brother. I’ve had to deal with him for sixteen years.”

Hermione smiled, knowing this. “I do miss them both.”

“Good. Tomorrow, okay?”

She nodded, picking up her bag and her Potions book, ready for her first lesson. “See you in Herbology,” she told Ginny, who didn’t take Potions this year. In fact, only four people took Slughorn’s class.

 

-break-

 

Taking her seat next to Ernie Macmillan, she smiled, greeting him. “Hi, Ernie. How are you?”

“Good,” he replied, his nose in his Potions book, frowning. “You?”

Hermione laughed a little. “What are you concentrating so hard on?”

“Sorry,” he said, smiling, looking over at her. “It’s just – I mean, how does Slughorn expect us to make a decent Polyjuice Potion? It looks _so difficult_.” Hermione hadn’t meant to smirk, but Ernie grinned at her. “Okay, so by that look, you’ve got this, right?”

“Yeah, I’ve got this,” she laughed.

“I’m really glad you’re here, Hermione,” he laughed, burying his nose in his book again.

“What are we making today?” she queried, opening her book and scanning the contents, wondering which Slughorn would choose. He’d been testing them since the beginning of term, since there was only four of them. Even Hermione had struggled and even failed at a few of the very advanced potions he had requested they make.

At that moment, their professor blustered into the room, grinning at his two students. “Good morning Miss Granger, Mr Macmillan. Hope you are both well.” They both nodded, making sounds of the affirmative. “And Mr Malfoy. Good morning.”

Hermione remained still as she felt Malfoy move through the classroom and sit to her right. They usually had Zabini between them, and rarely did either enter the Potion’s classroom without the other.

“Good morning, professor,” he replied smoothly.

“Mr Zabini has quite a day ahead of him. How unfortunate.”

“Unfortunate, yes,” Malfoy agreed. Hermione hadn’t the slightest idea what they were alluding to. The fact that there was only a chair between them was distractingly uncomfortable.

“Unfortunate, also, that he is missing the most interesting and fickle of all the potions I have asked you to make thus far – Amortentia.” Hermione felt the heat rise in her cheeks. “Though his absence may be fortunate for the rest of you – three heads are better than two, after all.”

Hermione bit her lip, feeling Malfoy turn his gaze to his left. She glanced at him, embarrassment filling her to her neck. She shuffled out the chair that was usually Blaise’s to allow Malfoy to move over. He hesitated for a second, before pushing his book across the gap and taking the offered seat.

“Off you go, then,” Professor Slughorn encouraged. They opened their books to the chapter required and read in silence for a moment. Ernie then started scribbling all the things they would need from the store, and Hermione went to retrieve them. Her heart was hammering in panic of being thrown together like this. She took a couple of deep breaths, safe in Slughorn’s store. Not for the first time, she was hoping for Malfoy to be his old self – indignant that they had to work together, refusing even. But he hadn’t made so much as a whisper in defiance. If anything, his move was measured, as if waiting to see how Hermione would react. It made her nervous. He made her nervous.

She returned with all their ingredients. Ernie reached for the flitterbloom to begin finely shredding it. Malfoy took the pufferfish eyes and rat spleen, leaving Hermione with the largely less disgusting Mandrake leaves and ginger root. She half smiled, suspecting this was deliberate, even though she had no idea why. Perhaps it was gratitude.

Hermione set to work, her silver blade slicing the ginger evenly.

“Finer,” Malfoy said, his voice soft. Her head jerked up in surprise of his tone. “It needs to be more fine.” She nodded in understanding.

None of them spoke for several minutes, adding things to the boiling cauldron in stages. Hermione took charge of the stirring, being in the middle.

“It’s starting to swirl,” Ernie said of the steam, which was rising in pretty coils around her hand.

She remembered the last time she had smelled this potion – the moment she realised that perhaps her feelings for Ron were not just platonic. She had smelled his hair, amidst the mown grass and parchment and spearmint toothpaste. She wondered what it would smell like, now.

To her right, Malfoy was crushing some cockroaches, displeasure plain on his angular face. She almost laughed at him, before he smirked at her without making eye contact. The nervous bubble in her chest rose to her throat.

“This is so difficult,” Ernie complained out of earshot of Slughorn, who was marking at his desk. Hermione made a sound of agreement before Malfoy leant close to her and took the ladle from her, his cool fingertips touching hers for a second. She let out some sort of noise, evidently, as he felt the need to explain himself.

“You weren’t adding the quarter anti-clockwise turn every fourth turn.”

“Sorry,” she replied softly.

With Malfoy turning the potion in the correct way, after a few more minutes, the potion had taken on an opalescent sheen. Seeing the correct swirling pattern of the steam from across the room, Slughorn grinned, rushing over to them. “Ah! A beautifully brewed Amortentia! Congratulations to you all!” He leant over the potion, inhaling deeply.

Ernie leant over towards the cauldron as Slughorn hurried off for some phials. He inhaled as Slughorn had done. “Hmm. Mum’s apple crumble, and log fire, and clean clothes, and … coconut moisturiser.” Ernie looked confused for a second, before smiling, then laughing. “Damn.”

Malfoy looked as though he wanted to lean over and smell the potion, but waited. Hermione leant over. Taking a sniff, she smelled that freshly mown grass again. And the new parchment. And the spearmint toothpaste. But she also smelled something new, in place of Ron’s hair. A cinnamony something. She stilled, unable to process her thought. And unable to place the smell. She was absolutely sure she had smelled it somewhere before.

Malfoy was watching her closely. She leant back in her chair as far as she could, trying to disappear into it. She could feel the flame in her cheeks. Ernie was laughing. “You okay, Hermione?”

“Um, yeah,” she replied quietly, avoiding their eyes. She ducked her head. Draco leaned in towards the cauldron, and Hermione watched in interest as he inhaled slow and deep, letting the scent, whatever it was, fill him. Taking a moment, he spoke. “Fresh coffee. Old books. Fir trees. Vanilla … something. Hm.” He was smiling into the cauldron.

Ernie raised his eyebrows, asking, “Vanilla shampoo?” of Malfoy. Malfoy stilled for a second, not answering the Hufflepuff’s query. He gathered his books, avoiding looking at anyone in the room.

“Can we go, professor?” he asked, his snide tone finally coming through. Hermione breathed a sigh of relief.

Slughorn looked surprised, almost dropping one of the phials he was carrying to collect samples of their potion. “Oh. Uh, yes – yes you may go.”

Malfoy was out of the room before Hermione could close her book.

 

-break-

  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I’ve had major writer’s block for the longest time. So sorry. Hopefully this doesn’t suck too much and that you’re still with me.
> 
> xx


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this took so very long ... I lost inspiration.

“Hermione, are you okay?”

It was Neville’s voice that awoke her from her stupor, staring into the Gryffindor Common Room fire, feeling her face heating from the over-hot grate. She blinked, started, and looked up at him standing in front of her.

“What?” she asked stupidly, before wiping away the tears that remained from her trip to Hogsmeade. They had stopped falling by the time she reached the castle, but the tell-tale tracks and red eyes were still plain. Realising her question sounded quite rude, she amended, “Sorry, Neville. Pardon?”

Neville’s brow furrowed. “What did Ron say?” he asked, anger seeping into his voice as he crossed his arms over his Fair Isle jumpered chest, taking in her red-rimmed eyes. Hermione pressed her lips together hard at the mention of Ron’s name. She shook her head. “I knew Ginny was wrong about this. I told her to keep out of it. But you know how Ginny is.”

Hermione shook her head, sighing. “It’s not Ginny’s fault.” She leant forward in her chair, her shoulders set hunched together. “It’s not even Ron’s fault.” Neville looked like he was about to incredulously disagree with her, but he fell silent when she looked at him. “He misses his brother, Neville.” Her eyes filled with tears again. “And I came back to the place it all happened. When he thinks of Hogwarts, all he remembers is pain and loss. How can I hate him for that?” Neville’s face crumpled in sympathy, slouching into an armchair. 

They both fell silent for several minutes, staring at the fire as it spat angrily. Neville eventually spoke again, exhaling loud enough for Hermione to hear. “How is Harry doing?”

She bit her lip, and looked over to him. “Still not sleeping.” Neville nodded, sadness heavy in his eyes. “But he’s doing okay, all considering. He’s living in Sirius’ house – making it steadily more liveable. I think pouring time into the house is a good distraction for him. That and Auror training.”

Neville nodded, saying, “That’s good.” Then Neville looked over to her, seriously. “So, what about you, Hermione? How are you doing?”

Her bottom lip was beginning to hurt, she bit it again. “In all honesty? I don’t know. What about you, Neville?”

“I’m okay. I miss Colin.” Hermione nodded, knowing that Neville and the eldest Creevey brother had been friends since Dumbledore’s Army. “I feel better about mum and dad now that Bellatrix Lestrange is finally dead. Like they finally have justice.”

“Are they doing okay?”

“Same as always,” Neville said with a sad sort of smile. “They’ll never be any different, Hermione.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, and Neville nodded.

“What about your parents?” Hermione crumpled, dropping her eyes to the floor as they filled with tears again.

“The Ministry are still trying to find them. Kingsley is personally dealing with it. But I haven’t had any news yet – they aren’t where I meant them to go. Maybe something went wrong. I don’t know.” Hermione hugged herself, not wanting to cry again. 

“They’ll find them soon. I’m sure of it.”

Hermione smiled in a bitter sort of way, her face twisting. “They still won’t remember I’m their daughter, though.”

Neville sighed, his eyes dropping to the floor as Hermione watched him. “At least,” he said gently, “there’s a chance you can give them their memories back.”

A few tears she had been holding back managed to escape her lashes as she said in remorse, “Oh Neville – I’m sorry, I –”

Neville shook his head and held up his hand. “No apology necessary. Honestly. It’s just – if there’s anyone who knows how you feel …” Neville motioned to himself sadly. Hermione leaned forward to take his hand in hers and gave it a short squeeze before releasing him. “I better head off – I was supposed to meet Luna. Err, are you sure you’re okay about today?”

She nodded, smiling at his concern. “I’m fine, Neville, honestly. Go see Luna. I’ll see you later, okay?”

“At dinner?”

“Sure.” She smiled again and waved as Neville lifted a hand as he departed.

Deciding that she should really move before Ginny came to grill her, she stood, brushing past some Fourth Year girls who just came down the stairs giggling in a shrill sort of way that hurt Hermione’s head a little, and headed to her Dormitory. The ‘Eighth’ Years didn’t exactly have dormitories, truth be told. In fact, Hermione had a room on her own, as she was the only Gryffindor girl who had returned to finish her schooling. Neville, Dean and Seamus had a small dormitory next to her room. Technically, Hermione shouldn’t be in the Gryffindor tower at all – along with her invite back to Hogwarts, she had received a personal letter from McGonagall, asking her to become Head Girl.

Before the war, Head Girlship had been a dream of Hermione’s. Now, after the war … Hermione turned the position down. It just felt … empty. At the time, Hermione had felt empty. She didn’t feel much better, even yet. In the end, she was glad she hadn’t accepted the post. After all, she would have taken it from Luna in her only chance to be Head Girl. And where Luna wasn’t especially bothered by the title, she had been doing a fine job, trying to involve everyone (even, in Hermione’s opinion, imaginary creatures) in her plans and activities, along with her fellow Head Boy, Justin Finch-Fletchey.

She opened the door to her room, planning on studying for the Ancient Runes test in seven weeks. After all, she was still Hermione Granger.

-break-

Dear Hermione,

Hope you’re okay after yesterday. Ron doesn’t mean to take it out on you – I’m sure you know that he isn’t out to hurt you, and that he doesn’t blame you for going back to school. He knows that you’re doing what’s best for you, it’s just difficult for him. He’ll come around, and you can both go back to normal. In the meantime, keep in touch – I don’t want the rift between you to cause a rift between me and you. I really miss you being around, Hermione. 

I was wondering whether Zabini had gone back to school – you have Potions with him, right? His mother was sent to Azkaban last week. She was harbouring Death Eaters at the Zabini summer home in Italy after the war. Keep an eye on him – just in case. I don’t know him very well, so who knows how he’ll react to this? I wasn’t aware of his involvement at all in the Battle, or his family’s involvement with Voldemort. Let me know if you notice anything strange. He may have had a secret alliance.

Keep an eye on Malfoy, too. I’m sure he’s unaware considering the conditions of his release, but his Father is going up for trial again – not just for his involvement in the inner circle of Voldemort’s followers, but for harbouring followers, snatchers and Voldemort himself during the war, as well as crimes against the Ministry. It doesn’t look good for him. It looks like his fifteen years he’s already been sentenced will increase to at least thirty.

Hope your lessons are going well, and that you’re not overloading yourself with studying (I know you will be – just remember to enjoy yourself too, okay?). 

Love,  
Harry x

Hermione folded the parchment, biting her lip, glancing along the Slytherin table, noticing that Blaise was not seated. Hardly a surprising revelation, considering. As far as she was aware, like Harry, Zabini had not been involved with Voldemort and hadn’t even been present at the Battle – McGonagall’s instructions to the Slytherin’s had been clear. As her eyes searched for Zabini, mercury met her gaze and she jolted, panic filling her for a moment, disconnecting their eyes. Had he been watching her? His gaze hadn’t been cold, as it always had been. It had been penetrating, as though …

She frowned down at her lap. 

“Hey, Hermione,” Ginny said as she sat beside her at the breakfast table. “You alright?”

Hermione smiled up at her friend, brushing off her odd encounter with Malfoy. “Yeah – I’m fine. How did the rest of your day go with the boys?”

“I wish you would have stayed, Hermione.”

“I know, Ginny – but I was making it difficult for Ronald, and that’s the last thing I wanted to do, really.”

“It will settle eventually. After all, I’m back here … his anger doesn’t really stack up, does it? His reasons for being mad? I lost Fred, too.” Her eyes teared up momentarily. “And I miss him – I miss him so much. But I don’t blame Hogwarts. I don’t blame anyone except the Death Eater who killed him – and Rookwood can rot in Azkaban.” Ginny’s eyes were on fire as she said this, and with that anger, she pushed back her tears. “Personally, I think it’s bigger than just who he lost. I think he wants to keep everyone close, now – as though he blames himself for some of the losses. Like he can protect us all. He tried to stop me coming back, too. After all, who can stand the thought about losing any more people in this mess? Ron just doesn’t understand his own emotions. He’s not dealing with anything well, and seeing George in … just … George isn’t George anymore.” Her eyes filled with tears again. This time, she let the tears fall. Hermione’s eyes filled with tears, too. It wasn’t unusual to see crying students in the Great Hall, these days. “On the plus side,” Ginny said with dedicated cheer. “Charlie is coming home – he’s taking a lot of time off working in Romania to help Percy keep the shop going until George can go back.” Hermione nodded, agreeing that this was good. “Anyway,” Ginny said, smiling again. “We better head to class. What do you have?”

“Transfiguration. You have Charms, don’t you? I’ll walk with you to the Grand Staircase. Have you done your homework?”

-break-

“Hermione, do you have an extra quill? Dean snapped mine,” Seamus scowled over his shoulder as Dean laughed beside him. She chuckled, reaching into her bag and passing Seamus the quill.

“To be fair, he deserved it,” Dean laughed, turning around to talk. “He’s been so desperate for female attention that he’s even talking about asking out Luna from under Nev.”

“Seamus!” Hermione chided as Seamus had the grace to look abashed.

“There are no girls left! All of them are either taken or too young!” Seamus defended. “Or war heroines who scare the bejesus out of me,” he said, turning more fully towards her, smirking. “Hey, Hermione …”

Hermione laughed, and Dean elbowed his friend in the ribs. “Don’t hit on Hermione, now! Ron would murder you.”

She smiled politely, but she doubted very much that Ron would bother. “I’m flattered to be your very last choice, Seamus. But I am a very scary war heroine, after all.”

“Damn,” Seamus cursed, turning back around again as Dean laughed at him, winking at Hermione before turning back to the front.

“If we’re all finished gossiping,” McGonagall said, sweeping in from the back, clearly coming from her office. She looked tired as she reached the front, the double-duty of being Headmistress and Transfiguration professor obviously becoming a burden. “Shall we begin?” she said sternly, fixing Seamus with a glare.

As the lesson began, the class was put to task to transfigure their pets into spice boxes. Hermione sat, petting Crookshanks quietly, studying the text carefully. She felt a pair of eyes watching her. She knew before she looked who they belonged to. Eyes trailing to her left, her suspicions were confirmed as soft silver studied her. She bit her lip, looking away.

“Now, Crookshanks, forgive me. You might smell of ginger for a few days.” Crookshanks turned his massive eyes on her, watching her intently. “Don’t look at me like that. Don’t you trust me?” The cat may as well have laughed as he leapt off the desk and disappeared to the left of the classroom. 

“Miss Granger,” McGonagall called from her desk. “Please be in control of your familiar.”

Hermione’s cheeks flamed in embarrassment as she stood and rushed past Malfoy in her attempt to find the blasted cat. “Crookshanks!” she hissed, trying not to disturb anyone. She couldn’t find him, even ducking under tables to spot him.

“Granger,” his soft voice drawled – not maliciously. Hermione detected amusement as she lifted her head from under his desk to look at him, her face on fire. “Though I don’t find it an entirely unpleasant thought for you to be under my desk, it appears your fur-ball is on top of mine.” Malfoy’s eyes were boring into hers as she stood a little clumsily, watching in astonishment at Malfoy petting Crookshanks, and Crookshanks enjoying it. He usually only showed animosity to everyone except Hermione. “He appears to have taken a liking.”

“Perhaps he came to the person he knew I would likely avoid.” As soon as she said the words, she realised they were harsh. Malfoy just smiled, though.

“Perhaps. Intelligent, like his owner, then. Mostly cat, with something a little wilder in the mix, too. He’s an interesting creature.” He was looking at Crookshanks thoughtfully. She bit her lip, hard, wondering whether he was trying to compliment her. She studied him, his features relaxed – something his pointed face rarely was. Objectively, he was quite beautiful. Her thought shocked her. “Are you alright?” he asked her, lowering his voice further. His eyes were avoiding hers this time, as though embarrassed to be asking. 

“Y-yes.” She picked up Crookshanks from his desk, petting him softly.

“Sounds like it,” he smirked, before looking up at her.

“What are you doing, Malfoy?” she said, leaning towards him so the rest of their classmates couldn’t hear them.

Malfoy sobered, his smile disappearing. “Nothing,” he told her. “Just talking.”

“To me?” Hermione asked in an incredulous whisper.

His eyes found hers again, and she saw something which could only be described as desperation in them. “I …”

“Miss Granger. Mr Malfoy. Is there a problem?” McGonagall said, walking towards them.

“No, professor,” they both answered automatically, breaking their eye contact – Hermione to look at their professor, and Malfoy to look at his eagle owl sitting in the cage on his desk.

The professor stopped in front of them, her arms crossed over her chest. “I expected better from the two students I had hoped would be our Head Boy and Head Girl this year. I think you have disrupted my lesson enough for today. Return to your desk, Miss Granger.” Hermione looked to Malfoy in surprise at the professor’s words, before hurrying to her desk, mumbling an apology to McGonagall as she passed her. 

So Malfoy, like her, had turned down the Headship. She bit her lip, before placing Crookshanks back into his basket. She supposed she was surprised that McGonagall had given him it. No matter his change of heart, he had been a Death Eater. He had been on the other side of the war. He had hurt people. He had brought about the death of Albus Dumbledore.

Hermione’s brow furrowed as she twirled her wand in her fingers, staring blankly at her textbook, deep in thought. 

Why had he turned it down?

-break-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. I have another chapter almost written, so I hopefully will get better at updating. Please leave a comment to let me know if you are enjoying this and that I should continue. I truly need the encouragement.


	5. Chapter 5

Hermione dragged her hands through her hair, it looking rather more mane-like than she’d prefer. She rushed towards the Charms section, flicking her wand to four books which took their sweet time descending from the shelves. She snatched them from the air, hurrying back to the bank of three desks she had spread her work across. Slamming the books down, and earning her a vehement glare from Madame Pince, she collapsed back into her chair, trying to pull her hair up into some semblance of a bun, twisting the hair so that it sprang out of her hands in all directions. She sighed, giving up and dropping it back onto her neck. She was attempting to study for her first exam, which was just a little over two months away. And she was desperately behind schedule.

Someone cleared their throat behind her as she rolled up the sleeves of her shirt. She turned in surprise and mild irritation at being interrupted.

Malfoy bit his lip, avoiding her eye. His shirt was dishevelled, his collar loosened. “Oh,” she said in surprise. “Um …” She stared at him in question.

“Granger, can I borrow Hildegarde Spindle?” he asked, referring to one of the dozens of texts littered across her table. He was eyeing her hair in disbelief, then, and Hermione blushed crimson, trying to flatten it in embarrassment. She turned towards her desk, lifting books to find the one he required. After moments of scrabbling, and his nervous energy increasing steadily behind her, she laid her hands on the book and turned to give him it. He stared at her for a moment longer, staring at her hand for another, before finally taking the book.

He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, before finally deciding to say, “Thank you.” He turned to leave her alcove, before Hermione’s mouth spoke without her brain fully engaging.

“Why did you turn it down?”

He turned back towards her, his face solemn. He clearly knew what she was talking about, even though she had found out about it weeks previous. He was biting the inside of his cheek – she could tell. Eventually, he sighed, glaring up at the ceiling. “I knew you’d be Head Girl and ... I didn’t want to ruin it for you. After everything, you deserved ... peace.”

“Oh,” she uttered, watching him, surprised. His eyes fell to hers again, before he turned around and strode off.

-break-

Hermione awoke with a start, picking her head up from where she had been leaning it on her hand on top of a book. She looked around blearily, noting the dark library. She felt up to her hair, where it was all sticking out at odd angles because of her sleeping position, and her back protested in the straight-backed chair. Groaning, she stretched. As she did, some heavy material slid onto the chair behind her. Frowning and turning to retrieve it, she bit her lip, knowing it did not belong to her. Her eyes tracked around the darkened rows to try and spot the cloak’s owner, but it appeared too late for anyone else to be there. Had she missed dinner, too? Her stomach protested at the thought. Or maybe it was protesting at the sight of the serpent emblem on the cloak’s left breast.

And there, returned, at her right elbow, was the Spindle text he had borrowed, with a napkin-wrapped pumpkin pasty from the Great Hall atop. She frowned at it for a long moment, wondering what Malfoy’s angle was. What sort of trick was he playing? She wondered if it was beneath him to poison her. Something about him, though … something about his manner towards her, it lacked malice. It lacked disgust. She wasn’t used to his face without the curl to his lip. The recoil away from her. Something about him was … sad. Alone. Her empathy twisted her stomach this time as she wrapped herself in his cloak, letting the clean and slightly spicy scent envelop her. There was something familiar about the scent, like she’d smelled it before. She supposed one of the Weasley’s wore the same cologne, or … she couldn’t place it.

It wasn’t unpleasant, anyway. It smelled … expensive, and comforting. She almost settled back down to go to sleep again. Instead, she picked up the pasty and sniffed, not sure what poison would smell like, but it made her feel a little better to know it smelled like a pumpkin pasty, at least. Taking a bite and not immediately croaking made her smile at his thought. Then, she frowned. This didn’t make sense at all.

She finished her pasty, realising it was well past curfew, and wrapped the cloak further around her, waving her wand at the few books she wasn’t planning to take back with her to her dormitory. Placing the dozen or so others in a levitation charm, she gathered her parchment together, stuffing it in her bag and hitching it onto her shoulder. She kept on the Slytherin cloak, probably a little recklessly, for if she had been caught by one of her classmates, she would not have had a believable story prepared to justify why she was in possession of a Slytherin cloak, obviously made for a male considering its length. She hadn’t brought her own cloak, as she had been planning on being back in the Gryffindor tower after dinner. Now, the temperature had dropped and she could almost see her own breath in the cold corridors of the castle as she hurried quietly through them, her wand light being the only illumination.

By the time she reached the seventh floor, she was chittering, even with the expensive wool wrapped around her and the warming charm she'd casta. She made herself take it off before climbing through the portrait hole, folding it neatly and hiding it in her bag with a shiver. She wondered how she was going to get it back to him without … Did he care if people knew he’d worried about her being cold in the library? She assumed he wouldn’t want her to give him it back publicly – like over breakfast or class. She wondered if he wanted her to even acknowledge the act of kindness, even in private. She knew she must, whether he liked it or not.

Reaching her dormitory, she quietly padded to her four-poster, trying not to wake the sixth year girls below her. Flicking her wand to her trunk, the books that had been following her settled themselves neatly on top. Her fingers found the soft material of the cloak and placed it alongside, careful not to cause creases. Rummaging in her bag, she extricated a blank piece of parchment and a quill.

_Malfoy,_   
_Thank you._   
_G._

She stared at the note for a long time, wanting to say much more, but ultimately deciding it was enough. Lifting her wand from beside her, she charmed it into an origami crane. It fluttered, and she opened the window, before flicking it from her hands, sending it to the dungeons, where it would hopefully find him. It had, she found, a few moments later.

_Granger,_   
_You were frozen._   
_M._

His paper crane was more refined than hers had been. This irritated her slightly. His handwriting was tight, cursive, but angular. Nothing like reading a note from Harry who had tidy but very boyish writing, and Ron who had the messiest handwriting she had ever seen. His mother had obviously made him study calligraphy.

_You should have woken me._   
_G._

Another perfect crane swished through the window, and she couldn’t help but smile a little.

_You wouldn’t have accepted the cloak had you been awake. And you looked peaceful._   
_M._

A small shiver ran down Hermione’s spine at the thought of him watching her sleeping – and it almost sounded as though he were doing it fondly.

_You know me well._   
_G._

_Your obstinance is well-known, world over._   
_M._

She laughed a little at that, before replying.

_Touché._   
_G._

_Do you sleep well?_   
_M._

She frowned at his note, wondering what prompted such a question. She decided she was better to be honest.

_No. Not for a long time now. I have a lot of nightmares._   
_G._

_You had one in the library. You settled. I wanted you to be peaceful for a while. I have them, too. Do you think they will ever stop?_   
_M._

She worried which one it had been. If it had been about the Malfoy Manor, she would have most definitely said his name. Ginny had told her she had that one a lot. Biting her lip hard, she wrote back.

_I have to believe they will, Malfoy._   
_G._

His next note had been magically altered a few times.

_Why did you testify?_   
_M._

Hermione stared at the note, scrubbing her face with her hand nervously.

_I couldn’t have lived with myself if I hadn’t._   
_G._

_I have made it impossible for you to owe me anything, Granger. You certainly didn’t owe me my freedom._   
_M._

_I owed you a chance._   
_G._

_You didn’t. I promise you, you didn’t._   
_M._

She worried her lip, knowing her next question, but worrying it would stop him talking. She finally sent it.

_Are you okay?_   
_G._

She winced as she sent it, knowing he wouldn’t likely answer, or …

_No._   
_M._

Tears sprung to her eyes at his answer – that he had answered with brutal honesty.

_Nor me._   
_G._

She thought empathy would be better received than an offer of help, or a shoulder.

_Keep my cloak. I have several others. Getting it back to me might prove difficult. Goodnight, Granger._   
_M._

_Goodnight, Malfoy._   
_G._

She exhaled slowly, laying down on her bed. Her heart was beating a little too fast, she realised. She couldn’t really process why – but she was sure that it was adrenaline, and she knew she had wanted him to keep talking to her. She wanted Malfoy to talk to her.

-break-

Zabini was back when they had Potions the next day. He seemed grey and drawn, like he hadn't slept in the time he'd been away. He didn't speak much, as a general rule, Hermione had noticed, but he was whispering to Malfoy in the next bank of desks, his face completely heartbroken. She wasn't sure that this was the face of someone who'd known what his mother had been up to.

Malfoy listened intently, occasionally offering a few words in return. Zabini's fist came into contact with the desk suddenly and he covered his face with his hands. Malfoy made eye contact with her over his distressed friend and she hurriedly looked towards the front of the classroom, where Slughorn should be, the class having started five minutes before.

“Do you think Slughorn is coming?” queried Ernie from her left, scribbling notes from his Herbology textbook. “I still have Professor Sprout’s essay to do. And Professor Sinestra's. This year sucks.”

Hermione smirked a little at Ernie’s grumbling, immediately put in mind of Harry and Ron. Then she frowned, sad suddenly. She'd write to Harry later to check in.

“I’ve finished the Herbology one if you want a look at mine, Ernie?” she smiled, fishing it out of her bag and sliding it over to him. He looked at her like he was about to kiss her, and Hermione blushed, laughing.

“You're a goddess, Hermione.”

She laughed some more at Ernie as he buried his nose in her parchment, furiously taking notes before Slughorn appeared. She knew, unlike Harry and Ron, he wouldn't copy it word for word, at least.

“Ah! Sorry everyone. Important business unfortunately comes first, you'll understand. So! Experimental potions – some of you will already be aware of tiny shortcuts or mild alterations to the generally accepted recipes of some well known potions. A slightly more pungent Sleeping Draught, a much stronger Pepperup to clear the most vicious of colds or hangovers ... they are quickly being accepted into the Potionmaster community and now - you'll be glad to hear – are no longer illegal under the Potion and Alchemy Safety Standards Act of 1492 ...”

Slughorn dove into his lecture without taking so much as a breath. He continued for the rest of the hour as the four students took notes at the points he emphasised, convinced that it would be useful for the exam and, moreover, in life.

Hermione's head was buzzing with ideas as she lay down her quill at the end of class. Ernie slid back her Herbology essay with a sheepish smile.

“Thanks, Hermione. You're the best. Class was interesting today, huh?” Hermione opened her mouth to reply, but Ernie already wasn't listening. “Listen, I've got to run. See you.” He left the classroom hurriedly, his nose still in his Herbology book.

Hermione sighed, smiling a little at his antics, piling her stuff away in her bag, pausing once to write down a passing thought for an alteration to Skele-gro to lessen the pain associated.

The back of her neck prickled, and she glanced to her right. Sure enough, both Malfoy and Zabini were looking at her – neither appeared malicious and looked merely curious.

“Did you think of something, Granger?” Zabini asked, his violently blue eyes watching her with interest. Malfoy stayed quiet, looking at her book rather than her. Zabini’s gaze was making her nervous. His unnatural eyes were so intense in contrast with his walnut – albeit ashen from lack of sleep – skin. She suddenly felt like she was under a microscope and she stuttered. This made Malfoy look up, his lunar eyes now on her with interest.

“Uh, i-it's just a ... I thought maybe Skele-gro could be altered by substituting the, um, puffer fish with something less toxic to lessen the pain.”

She berated herself for feeling as though she was in a snake pit.

“Like?” Zabini asked, slightly teasing her nervousness. Malfoy smirked – not too unkindly.

“Sea cucumber would be too toxic, too ... maybe a Northern Puffer? Very similar, but not toxic ...”

“Might work,” Malfoy nodded, looking to Zabini in thought.

“I hope Slughorn lets us try,” Zabini commented, turning a smile to Hermione. “We could test your theory.” Hermione smiled slightly back, the validation feeling foreign. “I heard from Malfoy that you all worked on Amortentia together without disastrous results... and where I'm disappointed I missed that particular potion and missed an opportunity to smell its simply ... delectable scent again ... maybe all four of us could work together?” Zabini queried, gently. “After all, modesty aside, we're all rather good at potions. Maybe, with this experimental side of things, four heads are better than two?”

Hermione bit her lip, wondering his – their – motive.

“Be honest, Blaise,” murmured Malfoy softly, looking at his desk rather than her. “It's because we don't have an ounce of creativity in either of us.” It was the first time she had ever heard something self-deprecating from Malfoy, and in shock, she laughed. Malfoy smirked wryly at his desk.

“Also a fair point. We could just pretend for once that it’s for house unity? After all, Granger’s more Ravenclaw than Gryffindor so that makes her more palatable, and Hufflepuffs make it damn impossible to hate them, so ...”

Malfoy shook his head at Zabini and shot a rueful smile towards Hermione. Her heart leapt into her throat, realising it was the first time he'd properly smiled at her. She calmed her nervous energy by taking a breath. It was obvious, apparently, as Malfoy fixed her with a curious stare. She smiled back, and shook her head. “Sorry to say, I'm definitely a Gryffindor. But I don’t have any qualms with working with a bunch of Slytherins ... provided you behave yourselves.”

Zabini smirked, watching her. “I'll behave,” his smirk turning almost predatory. She blushed furiously at his innuendo. Malfoy elbowed him in the ribs, rolling his eyes.

“Must you?” Zabini asked lightly. Malfoy just shook his head as Zabini shrugged. “I'm Italian,” he replied, as if it answered an unsaid accusation. Malfoy rolled his eyes again, gathering his things and stuffing them in his bag, before swinging it over his shoulder.

“Come on then, Lothario.”

“Hey now, I prefer Casanova. Fewer negative connotations.” Zabini gathered his things, too.

“Later, Granger,” Malfoy added as they left the classroom and her.

“Bye,” she stuttered, unsure of what just happened.

-break-

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! So I'm really awful at updating. I'm really sorry. I've had this written for a while, and I still sort of hate it. You know when you're writing, and you get on this path, and no matter how many times you rewrite, you end up following the same path over and over? Basically, what I'm trying to say is, apparently this is the path we're taking ...
> 
> Thank you so much, lovely people, for reading.

If she were being really honest with herself, it bothered her that he could sit there and not even make eye contact, or smile, or acknowledge. She was unsure where the fact that she cared about that sort of thing regarding him had come from, or even when. All she knew was she was low-level irate when she walked past and made a small sound of greeting, and he didn't even lift his eyes to her. They had been amicable (or at least a close approximation of it) only a short while ago, and now? It was like she didn't exist. In some ways – and she hated herself for even feeling this – she felt it was worse than his merciless, xenophobic taunting of their youth. 

What had happened? She hadn't even started their last conversation – it had all been Zabini!

  
She hated that she cared.

  
She scowled down at her Transfiguration textbook, furiously trying to refocus on her studying, but her mind continued to wander, and his presence in the library, his back sloping away from her from the corner of her eye, was not helping.

  
She couldn't very well bring it up with him - he'd think she was even crazier than he thought her already. After all, she reminded herself again firmly, they weren't friends. They used to be enemies.

  
Perhaps it was the rivalry she missed. She hoped it was that.

  
She refocused on her textbook, writing notes diligently in her cursive hand. She gave up after only a few minutes. It was impossible. Her heart raced as she counted how many weeks there were until her Transfiguration exam, and, in a fit of anxiety, stood and stalked over to him, slamming her books down next to him and throwing herself in the chair beside.

  
Quietly, angrily, she whispered, “I can't bloody concentrate.”

  
Malfoy was silent for a long moment, before he said, in a slow, Lucius-type drawl, “Why does that sound like it’s my fault?”

  
For a moment, she felt panic around her diaphragm at the sound of his horrible, detached tone, so like his father's that he may as well have been in the room. “Is it a switch you flick that turns you into your father, Malfoy? If so, switch it off. It's creepy.”

  
“Excuse me?” his voice was dangerous, but he still hadn't lifted his eyes to her.

  
“It's like you have a personality disorder. A Psychologist would have a field-day.”

  
“A _what_?”

  
“Call me crazy – ”

  
He cut across her, spitting, “You're _insane_.”

  
“ _Call me crazy,_ ” she said again with venom. “But we were tolerant towards each other only a short time ago.”

  
He shook his head, still refusing to look up. “Granger, I'm busy, as you should be. I don’t have time for your whining.”

  
Steam may as well have been coming from her ears, and other students were beginning to look towards them, some curious, others annoyed by the distraction.

  
“I give up,” she huffed, gathering her things together again.

  
“I'm still not sure what you were trying to do originally, and what you’re giving up _on_ , Granger.”

  
“I'm trying to be pleasant – something you are apparently incapable of.”

  
Malfoy rolled his eyes, before glaring at her. “Why do you care?”

  
Hermione blinked stupidly, anger being replaced by embarrassment very quickly. “W-what?” she stuttered.

  
“Why do you care if we're pleasant to each other?” he persisted scathingly, staring her down as she shifted in discomfort.

  
“Because ... we have classes together.”

  
“We've _always_ had classes together. We are not friendly. We never have been. You do not know me. Please, do us both a favour and leave me alone.” He turned away, back to his books.

  
“Is that what you tell everyone who wants to make sure you're alright, Malfoy?” she hissed indignantly.

  
Malfoy fell silent for a second, before turning back to her, his eyes dangerous, thunderous - stormy. She fought not to flinch. “ _Leave me alone_.”

  
“Fine!” she barked, gathering her books, her heart beating rapidly with adrenaline and stormed out of the library. She would vehemently deny that tears were stinging in her eyes. She would also deny that she felt any fear when he'd looked at her like that.  
One thing was clear to Hermione, in light of her freak out, and their brief interaction, and that was that Malfoy was drowning in something. She just didn't know what.

  
-break-

  
_Dear Harry,_

  
_I hope training is going well, and that you're studying for your written testing. It's only three months away, don’t forget. No excuse of a dark wizard trying to kill you for exams this time._

  
_How is Ron? We haven't spoken. I miss him. I miss you both._

  
_Love, Hermione._

 

_Dear Hermione,_

  
_Ginny has been telling me all about your study schedule, and quite frankly, I'm concerned. Remember that you need to sleep. And eat. She says you look grey. Look after yourself – the Ministry need you alive to apply for a job. At least, I think._

  
_Auror training is great, but the studying ... let's just say I've been doing better than Ron has in helping George with product testing. I swear I'll try._

  
_Ron is okay. He misses you, too. He never explicitly asks about you, but I know he reads your letters whenever he's here. He's too proud to ask. Too stupid to ask you himself._   
_Once you're home, things will be better – back to normal. School will be over in a few months. I'll be so glad to have you back with us, Hermione. I miss you, too._

  
_Love, Harry._

  
Hermione placed down the letter, sad smile on her face. She looked up to Ginny and smiled, her having received a similar letter from Harry, and another in Ron's messier hand.

  
“You okay?” Ginny asked, concerned.  
Hermione nodded slightly, giving her friend a reassuring smile. “I just miss them.”

  
“I know,” Ginny agreed, taking Hermione's hand briefly over the table, before retracting as the Prophet owls flew in, dropping newspapers to all those who had subscribed.

A paper dropped in front of Hermione. She frowned at it, noting blonde hair on the front cover. Unfurling her copy, whispering started up all around her.

  
**Malfoy found dead in Azkaban prison.**

  
She read the first two lines, before Malfoy stood, scraping back the wooden bench he had sat at, alone. His haunted eyes met hers as she stood up too. He fled. Hermione scrambled.

  
“Where are you going?” Ginny asked in confusion, lifting her eyes from the paper.  
“He didn't know.” Hermione's heart was hammering as though it were empty, wildly searching for blood to pump. She stared up at the teachers table, McGonagall having stood also, her face grim and full of sympathy.

  
She made for the door, running. She had no idea where he would go. As he had pointed out, she didn't know him. She didn't know the first thing about him. Her feet led her to the door out to the grounds. The sunlight almost blinded her as she rushed out, looking for any sign of him.

  
There.

  
Running towards the lake.

  
She watched him for a moment, numbly, her head held in her hands. Her heart was still reaching out for blood. How could they do this? No matter a sentence. No matter who he was, or is. No matter who his father was. He was still his father.

  
She hastened toward him, slowing only when she was a few metres away. He didn't turn as she approached him, on his knees before the lake, staring out at the sun playing in the waves, reflecting into his storm.

  
She didn’t speak as she settled next to him, trying not to watch as his silent tears welled forth down his face.

  
After many, many minutes of silence, he spoke, his voice broken and incomplete and almost childlike. “I ...” He lost his words and fell silent again, his eyes screwed up, squeezing the millions of tears that just kept coming.

  
Hermione turned slightly towards him, before gently, gingerly taking his hand. He didn’t protest – he gripped onto her for dear life. His hand felt big in hers. And dry, and warm. She placed her other hand on top, her thumb brushing his knuckles as she spoke, soothing. “I'm so sorry, Draco.”

  
He didn’t answer. She expected he couldn’t. He screwed up his eyes again, using his other hand to cover his face, bending forward with anguish. She just held his hand.  
He was mostly silent, except for small sounds of pain that made Hermione's whole body ache in empathy. She knew she couldn't say anything to make this better. She knew he just needed someone there. Someone to anchor him as his grief tried to pull him under.

  
They sat for a long time. The sun had almost rose to full height when Hermione heard the whisper of feet on grass behind them. Professor McGonagall didn't look stern, for a change. She looked sorry. There was a little question to her expression as her eyes met Hermione's.

  
“Mr Malfoy,” she began gently. Malfoy didn't turn, but instead gripped onto Hermione's hand tighter, bowing forward as though to protect himself from the waves. “Miss Granger?”

  
Hermione looked at her professor, trying to convey everything to her. Trying to tell her that he needed a moment to process.

“Professor,” Hermione replied. Draco’s grip intensified as she started to pull away. She squeezed lightly, before slipping her hand out of his. She stood, biting her lip, and making her way towards the professor. She supposed, sadly, that it didn’t really matter who he was holding on to. He didn’t care that it was her. He didn’t care about her blood, finally, in the worst circumstance.

  
“How is he?”

  
Hermione shook her head, looking back towards him, his face now turned to the sky, his eyes closed. She could still see the tears streaming from his eyes. “I don’t know.” Hermione's voice wavered with the emotion she was feeling on his behalf.

  
“I am so angry,” McGonagall burst out with. “How dare they not tell him? He's a child. He has no access to family. How dare they let him find out this way?”

  
Hermione shook her head, tears beginning to pool in her eyes. “I don’t know. It's awful.”  
“I'm going to write to the Ministry about this. It's absolutely disgusting. He must come with me to my office so that –”

  
“Professor ... I think he just needs ... time. I'll bring him to your office myself, when he's ready.”

  
McGonagall deflated in her defiance a little, before nodding sympathetically. “Yes, of course. Let him take as much time as required. Make sure he’s alright, Miss Granger.” McGonagall turned to leave, but Hermione called after her.

  
“Do you think it’s possible for him to ... I mean, it wouldn't be for long, but his Mother is hurting, too.”

  
McGonagall looked grim. “I'm sorry, Miss Granger. If he violates his sentence, he will end up in Azkaban. And that is, as you so eloquently put at his trial, a fate which Draco Abraxas Malfoy is not deserving of.”  
Hermione watched her professor leave, before returning to his side. He took her hand immediately and Hermione smiled in a horribly sad sort of way.

  
“She’s going to write to the Ministry for you. They should have told you. You should _never_ have found out like that. That was so unfair. Heartless.” She shook her head, not expecting him to answer. She jumped when he did.

  
He wiped the back of his other hand across his face, before laughing humourlessly. “That's just the thing, though, isn't it, Granger? That's what they think I am. Heartless. A heartless, cold-blooded Death Eater.” He dropped her hand as if remembering himself. He leant forward again, closing his eyes. He spoke again before she could fathom a reply. “I've known since I was forced to join that he was wrong about everything. But he did all he did because he thought he was protecting us. He knew he'd fucked up. He didn't deserve to ... like _this_. Incarcerated. _Fuck_.” Malfoy swore to the sky.

  
Hermione didn't know what to say to him. She twisted her hands together. He rocked back, laying down on his back, staring up at the morning sky. She looked up at it, too. “You're not heartless, Malfoy,” she said gently, eventually. She could feel his gaze prickling the skin on the side of her face, but she didn't meet his gaze.

  
“I can't imagine why you would believe that, Granger, when all evidence points to the contrary.”

  
“I can see through the bullshit.” He fell silent, but he didn’t stop looking at her. “I'm so sorry about your Father, Malfoy. I'm sorry you found out like you did. It wasn't right – not at all.”

  
“Thank you,” he replied softly, staring up at the sky again as Hermione looked at him.  
“I wish I'd pushed more to get you completely acquitted,” she frowned, before watching as she twisted her hands together. Guilt gnawed at her consciousness.

  
“Granger,” he said, a little sternly. “I got off easy, thanks to you. I would have died in that prison, along with my Dad if you and Potter hadn't lost your minds and come to my defence,” he said with sincerity. It was the first time Hermione had heard Malfoy refer to Lucius as ‘Dad’ as opposed to ‘Father’, and her heart clenched in pain for him once more.

  
Hermione shook her head as she tried to suppress the tears that threatened to gather in her eyes. “Malfoy,” she began, a little choked. He looked up at her, surprise evident in his face again at her emotion. “I don't want you to ... feel alone. If you ever, ever need someone ... no judgement, no past, no prejudice, no Houses ... I'm here. Any time you need.”

  
He looked at her in thought for a very long time, then, the tears still shimmering on his face, eyes a little red-rimmed and sore-looking. He bit his lip, looking like a little boy all of a sudden. “I envy your grace,” he said softly, closing his eyes then, and turning his face upwards to the sky. “I meant what I said at the battle – the world really does need people like you to offset the balance for people like me.”

  
Hermione shook her head at his words, biting her lip as her tears fell. She sobbed a little, and it made him look at her in surprise again.

“People like you?”

  
He nodded solemnly, a dark look on his features.

  
“Malfoy, you _saved_ us,” she said incredulously.

  
He looked at her in confusion, then disgust. The curl to his lip was familiar, but it wasn’t directed at her blood this time. “ _Saved_ you? Is that what you call standing by and doing nothing?”

  
“You didn’t tell them who we were! They would have acted faster – killed me and Ron in a second! You gave us time to do something. You have no idea ...”

  
“She carved ... into your _skin_ ,” he spat, recoiling from her.

  
“Because of the sword,” Hermione said gently.

  
“Not just because of the _fucking_ sword.” He yanked up his sleeve and pushed it in front of her. “You think she did this because you had a fucking _sword_?”

  
The word ‘TRAITOR’ was still as angry and red as she had seen it last. Hers was the same. She pulled up her sleeve to reveal her scar too. “You gave us a fighting chance to escape.”

  
He shook his head, staring at her scar as he had done before. “I thought I was going to die every time she touched you.” His admission rang in the air, and he swallowed hard, obviously lost in the memory of it. “I've never been more scared in my whole life, Granger. It made it too fucking real, you being there.”

  
“I'm sorry,” she told him, her hand resting on his left arm. He flinched as her fingers brushed the underside over his Dark Mark.   
“Sorry?” he gasped. “I don’t even have words to describe the remorse I have in my body. _Never_ apologise to me.”

  
Hermione's eyes filled up with tears again for him.

  
“I'm sorry. For last week. And for ... ” he told her quietly, his eyes intent on hers. “For who I was before the war. For how I treated you. For ... my existence, still. It must kill you.”

  
Her brow furrowed. “Kill me? Why?”

  
He looked up to the sky, bitterness all over his face. “All the people who should have lived – your friends, your allies. It must kill you to see me breathing.”

  
“Don't be a martyr,” she spat, shaking her head, annoyed again. “Don't.” He shook his head, too, laughing at her without humour. “I don’t know why you do that,” she sighed, dragging her hands through her hair, making the curls fizz slightly.

  
“Do what?”

  
“Every time we’re close to understanding each other, you create this ... this artificial distance. Stop it.”

  
“Why should we need to understand one another, Granger? What possible good could that do? If you're trying to redeem me, I don’t need your pity. I certainly don’t deserve redemption.”

  
“It has nothing to do with redemption – Merlin, Malfoy! How deep in that hole inside yourself have you gone?” her voice was soft, and his terrified eyes looked up into hers suddenly, as though she had burned him. “Stop this,” she told him, her hand on his arm. “You are not the Devil.” He swallowed, his eyes burning hot as he looked at her. He looked terrified. “No one can save you if you don’t want to be saved.” His eyes filled with tears again, and she dropped her hand from him. He blinked away from her. “We could be friends. We aren't so different.”

  
“No?” he asked, looking bitter, but having recovered a little.

  
She shook her head. “Don’t think I don’t know who was snapping at my heels in every class to get the best marks. You overtook me once in Potions.”

  
“For a month, Granger. And you were livid.”

  
“You read, too. Not just for classes.”

  
“Yes,” he agreed. “I do. Is that all you have?”  
Hermione shook her head at his dismissive nature. Her eyes filled with tears without her permission.

  
“Sorry,” he said, sitting up towards her.

  
“Malfoy … I miss my friends. I have Ginny, but … Harry is my best friend, and Ron … he isn’t even speaking to me, and … I just, I miss them. You must miss yours too.”

  
He nodded, his eyes a little darker than before. He had lost some of his closest friends to the Battle.

  
“I’m connected to Harry and Ron, not only because of our childhood together, but the awful experiences I’ve had to endure with them. The last few years have been hell on earth – for all of us, both sides. I’m connected to you, too, because …-”

  
“We both suffered in the war,” he said, finishing her sentence.

  
“And we _survived_. Some of the worst parts of the whole horrible ordeal,” she emphasised. She sighed. “We could at least … be civil? I'm sick of all the hate.”

  
He looked at her, a softness she had never seen before around his eyes. “I never hated you, you know. Aside from your heritage, which I now know of course to be irrelevant, you yourself …”

  
“You didn’t hate the fact that I beat you in every class?” Hermione smirked.

  
He smiled wryly. “I respected you. Especially after you punched me.”

  
Hermione’s laugh rang out across the grounds, and Malfoy’s eyes lit with amusement, watching her. “I think the phrase you’re looking for is – ‘I was scared of you’, Malfoy.”

  
He laughed. “That too, I suppose. You were, and are, a force of nature, Hermione.” Every time he said her given name, she got a little jolt of shock to the heart. “I truly did admire you. I was just too bratty to admit it. And too bigoted to give you credit for your brilliance. I know that Potter wouldn’t have lasted two minutes without you.”

  
“People don’t give Harry enough credit.”

  
“Granger, he’s called ‘The Chosen One’, for Merlin’s sake.” Hermione smiled a bit. “You basically saved us all,” he mumbled. His high, aristocratic cheekbones changed colour, almost imperceptibly. Hermione blushed too, realising that his admittance probably meant more than the hundreds of people that had said it after the war. She struggled with that for a moment, knowing that that shouldn’t be the case. Maybe it was just because it was unexpected.

  
“We’re missing Potions,” she said thoughtfully, not really meaning it.

  
Malfoy half-smiled, laughing a little at her. “Shamefully, I don’t really care,” he said, teasing her. “To be honest, Granger, if I could walk out the gate right now, that’s what I’d do.” His last words were more serious, and a little sadder.

  
Hermione watched him for a moment, before speaking again. “I’m sorry you can’t go home.”

  
“Me too,” he agreed, sighing, brushing off the emotional thought, standing up. He held out his hand for her to take. Hermione looked up at him in surprise. He shrugged a tiny bit. “Come on. You need to get to Potions, or – god forbid – you might fall behind,” he smirked.

  
She hesitated, saying, “I can ... I mean, if you want I can ... stay,” she finished lamely. She took his hand, and he held it for a moment, looking at their interconnected hands before pulling her up to her feet.

  
“ _You_ want to skip class?” he was frowning despite his teasing.

  
“I just ... I don't want you suffering alone,” she said quietly, noticing his hand still holding hers. She looked down thoughtfully.

  
He didn't say anything, but he was looking at her with thought. She was suddenly aware of something filtering through her mind, and she jerked her hand away from him. Shock was clearly written all over her face. “Sorry,” he said immediately.

  
“You're almost undetectable,” she whispered, surprised more than annoyed that he had been pilfering through her memories.  
He winced. “I had to be good. Look who I was hiding my thoughts from,” he mumbled. He looked out at the lake, dragging both hands through his hair, making it stick out every which way.

  
“Were you looking for an ulterior motive?” she asked softly, watching him.

  
“Yes,” he answered instantly.

  
“I don’t have one,” she said simply, calmly.

  
He was quiet for a moment longer, before sighing and dropping his hands from his hair. He didn't look at her, but brushed her arm to catch her attention, before starting to step towards the castle. “Follow me?” he asked.  
Hermione nodded, before doing just that.

  
-break-

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again! Hope you enjoy this. Thank you for taking the time out of your day to read it.

Hermione bit her lip, staring at the book on her bent knees, coiling Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451 closer to her, not having read a single sentence in the hour she'd been sitting, surrounded by every text she could possibly want; warmed by a popping and crackling fire; nestled in a huge, squishy sofa. Her eyes flickered over the top of her text, before hurriedly wavering her gaze back to the pages before her.

  
He had lead her up to the Seventh Floor in relative silence, speaking only to direct her in entering the Room of Requirement. Like he had needed to tell her, given her history with the Room. Given _their_ history of the Room. It was different now – repaired, not quite as perfect as it once was, the old magic forgotten somewhere along the way.

  
This space was very different to her usual use of the enchanted room, as they stepped through. It was much smaller. There were two large sofas in the middle of the room, each facing the other with a low ottoman in between. The walls were lined with books – at least five hundred – and each bookshelf reached the ceiling. There were candles hanging in the ceiling – just enough light to read by, and atmospheric as could be. The little wall space that was left was painted periwinkle blue, and the plush carpet was a deep grey. She loved every inch of it. She could happily live in a room like this.

  
He had watched her reaction closely, before sifting through a few shelves and handing her the very book that she was balancing on her knees. He sat opposite her on the couches, propping his own book (surprisingly, Metamorphosis by Kafka) on his legs. She wanted to ask why he'd picked out two Muggle texts. She wanted to ask how he was. She wanted to ask what he thought of Kafka, of Bradbury. She wanted to ask if he'd read Rand. Ginsberg.

  
Her heart was keening for answers, finding it so unbelievable that Draco Malfoy knew who Ray Bradbury was to hand her.

  
“I can hear your brain from here, you know,” he quipped.

  
“Considering you're a Legilimens and I was unguarded, that’s hardly a shock,” Hermione defended, a little embarrassed by her thoughts. Her wall went up, iron clad.

  
He smirked. “You're easy for me to read,” he countered. Her heart leapt, embarrassingly. “Wizarding fiction is sorely lacking, Granger, as you must be aware,” were his only words of answer. He didn’t even look at her as he spoke. He fell silent, going back to his book.

  
“That's your answer? Really?” she asked, closing her book, but keeping her thumb in her place. He smirked, his eyes flashing to her irritated form.

  
“That's my answer,” he confirmed.

  
“When did you ...? I mean, there's no way you could have read these in your Common Room, and certainly not at home.” He gestured to the Room, laughing at her. “Oh. You came here? Sat on your own?”

  
“Solitude is bliss in most circumstances, Granger. Especially when you're usually surrounded by sycophants and mountain trolls.” He turned back to his book. “Unless said company enjoys the Beats.” He winked scandalously over Kafka. Hermione wondered if it were normal for her blood pressure to be so high.

  
To hide her high blush, she buried her nose back into her book. He tossed his, closed, to his left and leant his head back into the couch, stretching. After a few moments, he spoke again. “I know it’s not exactly masculine, or whatever is expected of me at the age I am, or other social constructs, but ... I miss my Mum.”

  
Hermione placed down her book, looking at him with pain written all over her face on his behalf. And a little for her, too. “I miss mine, too.” Hee looked at her quizzically. “I had to Obliviate my parents before the war.” She didn’t want to explain, but felt the need to. She wanted to share the vulnerability he'd had to share today. “Today has been an awful day for you, Malfoy. And a terrible day for your Mother. You'll be together again, soon. There's not much school left. Then you can go home.”

  
He nodded thoughtfully. “Home,” he said, like he'd tasted something awful. “That place hasn’t been ‘home’ since ...” He cut himself off forcefully, swallowing. “Your parents are safe?” he asked, attempting to distract her from his words.

  
She nodded bleakly. “In Australia. Somewhere.”

  
“You can’t find them?”

  
“The Ministry took over the search. They weren't where I meant for them to go. Obliviate is ... finicky.”

  
Malfoy looked concerned, then deep in thought. “You’ll find them,” he assured her. It was so out of character, that Hermione’s eyes widened. He was trying to reassure her. “Your mother is ... Jean, like your middle name, right?”

  
Hermione gaped at him. “How do you know that?”

  
Malfoy shrugged. “We've known each other for eight years, Granger.”

  
She looked at him for a moment longer before shaking her head. “They don't even know their names at the moment,” she sighed. “They don't even know they're dentists. And they have no idea I'm their daughter, a witch sitting in a room full of Muggle literature with the former Prince of Darkness!” she finished on a slightly hysterical note.

  
“Prince of Darkness. I like that.” She rolled her eyes, before laughing miserably. “You'll find them, Granger.”

  
She didn't speak for a moment, before sighing at herself. “I'm supposed to be comforting you.” She covered her face with her hands.

  
“It's called symbiosis, I believe.” He was smirking.

  
“Something like that. Go back to your book,” she demanded. He smirked wider, before picking it up with nimble fingers, flipping through to his page, still watching her. He was silent, but she could feel him watching her with that damned smirk fixed in place as she attempted to read. “What?” she snapped hotly.

  
“You're an unpredictable creature, Granger. I find irritated you very entertaining. However, I do have to clarify: why are you directing it toward me?”

  
“Because you’re being smarmy,” she stated factually, still frowning down at her book, still annoyed. He laughed warmly. She blushed again. Even as she forcefully read her book, she could feel his amused eyes watching her. “Malfoy,” she said in a warning tone.

  
“Yes, Granger?” he asked, his voice deepening and taking on a quality that Hermione didn't understand, nor know what to do with.

  
She shook her head, flustered. She searched her brain for something to say – anything to stop him looking at her like that. “How is Zabini?”

  
His blond eyebrows disappeared into his hair. That did it. “Blaise?”

  
Hermione nodded, as Malfoy shifted in what appeared like discomfort. “His mother ...”

  
“Is not Blaise’s favourite person in the world, put it that way.” He muttered his reply, trying to go back to his book, but Hermione had more questions.

  
“It can’t have been nice for him to see her go to Azkaban, though? She is his mother, after all.”

  
“The traditional idea of ‘mother’ doesn't really apply to Iniga.” He spoke slowly, as though he was measuring what he was going to say. “Let’s just say that Blaise wasn't upset about his mother being sent to Azkaban, more what she got away with.”

  
“Oh.”

  
“Oh,” he answered her bluntly.

  
Hermione processed this for a moment, wondering what on earth Ms Zabini could have possibly done that was worse than sheltering on-the-run Death Eaters. “Your world is very different to mine,” she said, a little thoughtlessly. His brows knitted together instantly, and she regretted it immediately.

  
“Evidently,” he snapped.

  
“I just meant ...-” She cut herself off, not knowing where she was going with her statement.

  
“I _know_ what you meant,” he told her bluntly. “That family members going to Azkaban is so common for Pure-bloods that it doesn't affect us any more?”

  
“I wouldn't be sitting here right now if I thought that,” she said, leaning forward in shock. He measured her for a moment. He opened his mouth to speak, but Hermione cut across him. “If you always assume that people think the worst of you, Malfoy, they _always_ will.” She watched him as he processed, her words having an obvious affect on him. He looked at her with terrified eyes and it took all of her force of will to not throw her arms around him. “I keep telling you that you're not the Devil. I wonder if you'll ever believe it?”

  
His eyes met hers again, and he looked terrified, and in pain, and close to tears. But also in awe. “It's scary – How ... _beautiful_ you are,” he finally choked out. Hermione's eyes widened at his words, taking time to fully understand what he was saying. She could see that he meant it. His eyes were so fervent, alight quicksilver. She could also see that it wasn't her face he meant – at least not alone. Maybe it was her humility. Tears sprung to her eyes. She bit her lip, hard, fighting with herself to control her emotions.  
Hermione couldn't speak. She looked at him, lost. All she wanted to do (a want that scared her – that confused her) was bury her nose into the crook of his neck, to feel his arms around her, to feel his warmth against her. Maybe it was because she missed Harry and Ron ... Maybe it was ... something ...

  
She felt the familiar prickle that came with legilimency and she closed her eyes in defeat, knowing what he had seen in her mind's eye. Her defences had been down. She heard him move, but she didn't open her eyes. Of course, she felt the couch depress next to her. He took her hand, the familiar thrum of magic against her fingertips, like they had outside, but the circumstance was different. This was different. He didn’t push her further than that.

  
She sobbed a laugh, before sobbing for real, tears squeezing out beneath her lashes. “That's an invasion of privacy. I hope you know that,” she grumbled.

  
“Sorry,” he murmured, not sounding it.

  
“Why is this comforting?” She asked, not really knowing whether she wanted to know the answer.

“Survival. Like you said.” His thumb brushed her knuckles. She sighed, relaxed.

  
“Maybe,” she whispered.

  
He was quiet a moment, and she settled her nerves. He spoke again, giving a small ‘hmm' of laughter first. “I can feel your magic.”

  
Hermione smiled at their hands. “Yeah. Yours too.” It was difficult to describe the feeling, but it was unlike any wizard she had ever touched. Usually, it wasn't obvious without extreme fits of emotion. Like Ron when he was angry, he felt as though he was spitting fire, or Harry when he was anxious, like unstill water. Draco's magic was unique, and terribly ... ancient. Interconnected. Like a web spanning out across centuries. She wondered whether his whole family felt the same. It was ... blue. Sapphire. Clean cut, and brilliant, sparkling beneath her fingertips, as though firelight glinted through. The warmth ... surprised her.

  
“Like molten gold,” he murmured, affection clear in his voice, describing hers. He didn't look at her, and she didn't answer. “I've never felt magic like yours before.”

  
“You've never held the hand of a Gryffindor before,” she teased.

  
He laughed warmly, shaking his head. “I'm not sure that has anything to do with it, Granger.” His brow furrowed after his words, and he was deep in thought for a long moment.

  
She let him get lost in his own mind, still marvelling at the feel of his hand in hers. He sighed eventually, and she looked up at him. He looked tired – scratch that, he looked world-weary, and she was filled with sadness once again.

  
“You're going to be okay,” she told him, the good feeling for his future totally blind, but she was sure of her statement. Her voice was soft and unassuming.

  
He smiled an infinitesimal smile. She smiled, too.

  
“Thank you for ...” He said, unable to finish his sentence, swallowing hard, but Hermione knew, anyway. She nodded, smiling a little more sadly. “I should go and see McGonagall.”

  
“Oh! I forgot!” Hermione cried, jumping up, pulling him with her. He was laughing as she dragged him to the door. “You should have been there hours ago.”

  
He shook his head, still smiling. “I promise I'll go. You can still make Arithmancy if you hurry, Granger. Go.” She looked at him, worried. “I'm going to be okay. Just like you said. Go,” he insisted. She worried her lip, before stepping backwards, away from him.

  
“If you need ... someone, just ...

  
He nodded, his gaze watching her mouth.

“Yeah,” he agreed.

  
“Okay,” she said, stepping backwards, as if scared that the spell would be broken if she turned away.

  
“Okay,” he uttered softly. Closing her eyes, she turned, hurrying away to class, intensely tempted to turn back – but she didn't, scared she'd see the old Draco Malfoy in place of this ... softer ... warmer ...

  
-break-

  
She didn't go to class, as she probably should have. She would have to apologise to Professor Sinestra later. Now, she had more pressing things on her mind. Hurrying along the corridors, she hiked up her bag a little further onto her shoulder, the ludicrous number of books she was carrying heavy despite the featherweight charm she had placed.

  
She finally reached the Owlry, sitting on the stone steps outside to write.

_Lady Malfoy_ ,

  
_Please accept my deepest condolences for your loss. It would be crass of me to pretend to you that your husband was a friend, but he was your husband, so I can therefore hold in good stead that there was good in him. I hope that you have someone with you who is of comfort._

  
_I know it must be strange, me writing you this letter after all of our history, but I know what you did for Harry in the forest – I know that you protected him, just to know that your son was safe. I wanted to repay you, in a way. Much less significant in history, but in Malfoy history ... today is a dark day, and if you can't be together, I have to step in._

  
_I want you to know that your son is okay – heartbroken, and missing you, but okay. He doesn't know of this letter, but I know he would want me to tell you that – and that he loves you very much._

  
_With sympathy,_   
_Hermione Granger_

  
Hermione sealed the letter with a magical seal, and headed into the Owlry. She tied it to one of the school owls, hoping it was inconspicuous enough not to be intercepted by the Ministry. Despite her genuine innocence, she doubted whether Ministry Officials would believe her motive.

  
She watched as the bird took flight, into the dipping sun of the afternoon, the Great Lake below shimmering orange.

  
Knowing she had done the right thing, she headed off to dinner as the last bell chimed over the Grounds. She had missed every single class. She didn't hold any regret in her heart, though, only hope that Malfoy would be okay.

  
-break-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you next time. Thank you for reading x


	8. Chapter 8

“Where have you _been_ , Hermione? You missed Defence _and_ Charms. And Ernie said you weren't in Potions, either! Are you okay?” Ginny descended upon her immediately as she sat down at the Gryffindor table. Neville looked on, worried, next to Luna who only looked mildly dreamy and vaguely interested.

“I'm fine, Gin. Honestly,” she evaded, her hunger finally hitting her – she hadn't eaten since breakfast. She pulled the chicken stew towards her, ladling herself a portion.  
  
“Did you find him?” Ginny asked pointedly, disapproval plain on her freckled face – a face that reminded Hermione so much of her brother, that her heart hurt for a few seconds.

“I really don't want to discuss it, Ginny.” Her voice was stern, knowing what her friend was likely to say. But she knew her words would be like a red rag to a bull.

“Okay – let’s _not_ discuss the fact that Malfoy was a Death Eater, from a family of Death Eaters, who helped kill our friends. My _brother_. Who _tortured_ you. Who tried to _kill_ you. And if that wasn't enough, who bullied you _mercilessly_ through school.” The venom in her voice was caustic.

“Ginny,” she cut, glaring at the red head. “I know all of that. I haven't forgotten. However, _he_ didn’t do all of that, did he?”

“You and Harry helped him wheedle his way out of any convictions, so who knows?” She questioned scathingly.

“He pleaded guilty! He wasn't even trying to get out of anything! We just told the truth.”

“The truth would be that he watched you be tortured by his psychopath Aunt and did _nothing_.”

  
Hermione laughed humourlessly as Neville grew more and more uncomfortable with the altercation.

“What do you propose he did?”

“He could have done _something_!”

“He would have been _killed_. Instantly. Potentially his whole family would have been killed. Nothing he could have done would have helped me. He knew that.”

“It was self-preserving,” Ginny muttered. “Just like a Malfoy.”

Hermione shook her head at her friend. “His father _died_ , Ginny. Ex-Death Eater or not, it was his father. He's human. He has no-one.”

“So you're his friend now?” She asked incredulously.

Hermione shook her head, then shrugged, sighing. “No. I just don’t want him to be alone. Loneliness does terrible things to people. Especially people like Malfoy.”

“Just ... look after yourself, Hermione,” Neville said, placing a hand on Ginny’s shoulder to stop her scathing reply. “He wasn't kind to you – any of us. He could still be the same person, deep down.”

“I know,” she replied solemnly, looking at Neville in gratitude.

“It's kind of wonderful that he feels connected to you,” commented Luna, sort of staring above Hermione's head as she spoke to her. “After everything, I'd imagine that would be quite hard for him to feel. He likes you and you won't let him sink. I think he knows that.”

Hermione shifted uncomfortably, as she often did after Luna spoke. Ginny fumed beside her. “I don't ... I think ‘like’ is a bit strong, Luna,” Hermione stammered.

“Okay,” she said dreamily, smiling, before extracting a copy of the Quibble from her bag, beginning to read.

Neville shifted nervously again as Ginny stabbed her pork chop with venom. Hermione quietly ate so that she could leave without any more arguments.

-break-

_Hermione,_

_Ginny wrote me. I think you know what she said. I get that you're trying to save him or whatever ... just please be careful. He's still a Malfoy. He still hated you for your blood – someone doesn't completely change their whole ideology in the space of a couple of months. I just don’t want you to get hurt._

_I know Ginny can fly off the broomstick, but she loves you. We all do. Just please be careful, okay?_

_Love,_  
 _Harry_.

Hermione scowled at the parchment, not even bothering to reply. Honestly, couldn't people leave well enough alone? She wasn't stupid. She didn't have amnesia. But she also didn't believe that bad people were bad all the way through. Malfoy had made some poor choices, yes, but he was also the same person who snuck off in secret to read Muggle literature. They weren't seeing the whole picture. Blinkered, just because they cared so much about her. And because they hated him.

“Hey,” Neville said from behind her, rounding the couch she was sitting on in the Gryffindor Common Room to sit next to her. “Letter from Harry?” he asked, his tone wary, as if he knew what it said.

“I figure Ginny told you she wrote to him,” she sighed, folding the letter and placing it down. She leaned back in the couch.

He nodded guiltily. “Is he as mad as Gin?”

Hermione's face twisted as she shook her head. “No. I don’t think anyone could be.”

“I’ll bet I could think of someone,” he said gravely, pointing figuratively towards Ron.

“I would hope that Ginny wouldn't be stupid enough to tell him,” Hermione yelped. “I'm not doing anything wrong, Neville. I feel like I’m being warned off or attacked from all sides.”

Neville sighed, shrugging. “We just don't want you to get hurt.”

“Like Malfoy could beat me in a duel?” Hermione commented, scoffing. Neville didn't answer, but he got all awkward again. Hermione shrugged it off, anyway. “I should get to bed. It's been a long, emotional day. Night, Neville.”

Before she could reach the stairs, Neville caught her wrist, pulling her into a warm hug. “Night, Hermione.”

She hugged him back fiercely, not realising how much she needed it until he had his arms around her. She sighed happily, and he drew away, laughing. “Yeah, I knew you needed that.”

“I really did,” she agreed. “Thank you.”

“Any time,” he laughed, waving her off up the stairs, a little embarrassed. She beamed at him, before ascending to her dormitory, feeling a little bit lighter.

-break-

The reply from Narcissa came a few days later. The regal owl landed in front of her at breakfast. She was glad to note, as she removed the pristine, embossed note from the monogrammed letter holder on the bird’s leg, that Malfoy had chosen today to be late to the Great Hall. In fact, thankfully there were few people around. It was a Sunday, and Hermione had risen early to go to the library.

Despite the quietness, though, Hermione didn’t want to be caught reading the letter. Malfoys weren’t exactly subtle with their branding. She slid the letter into her bag to read later. The owl took flight with a flourish, not even pausing for a treat. Well trained, she supposed. Like all Malfoys.

She wondered how he was doing. She hadn’t been able to speak with him candidly – her only contact with him being in class, and she had assumed he wouldn’t want to talk about his mental health around other people. Or talk to her in front of other people at all.

She thought back to when Zabini had spoken to her in Potions, and realised that Malfoy had only indirectly spoken to her in the exchange. She wondered whether she was analysing it too much. She was guilty of that, after all. But still, it was true. Maybe his prejudices were still his social facade.

It was odd. Hermione had never thought she wanted to know more than skin-deep about him. Skin-deep was enough. He called her Mudblood. Hexed her teeth. Bullied her. She hadn't needed to know further than that. And now? What had changed? She'd seen him on the Grand Staircase, his bravado – his mask – slipped? She'd peered behind the curtain, past the veil, and now ...

She wondered, if she said this out loud, how crazy she would sound. How insane she would even sound to herself.

She sighed, biting into her toast, trying to stop her mind meandering further down its path, hurrying to find herself a secluded spot in the library to read the Malfoy matriarch's letter.

-break-

_Miss Granger,_

_I thank you for your kind words of comfort, first and foremost. I know my husband was not kind to you – that my family was not kind to you – and it speaks highly of your character to write me at all. I bitterly regret all my involvement in ever making you feel sub-witch. I realise now that our out-dated ways are toxic – that our ways breed madness and hate. I write this with the most genuine sincerity. I desperately hope that my beautiful boy knows this, too, and is not tempted by our poisoned guidance._

_My husband loved us. He did. He tried endlessly to please the Dark Lord – to allow us to leave. To allow us to France – away_ _from his Reign. But Lucius was not merciless. He disappointed the Dark Lord, and we were deemed unworthy. All of us enslaved. Imprisoned in this damned house. Imprisoned as I am now._

_I do not tell you this so that you pity me – us. Just in the hopes of bringing you understanding of my beloved husband. He tried for us. For my sweet son and I._

_I did not turn Mr Potter over to the Dark Lord, only to hear of my son. I know that is not noble. I do not deserve your commendation or reward. However, knowledge of my son_ _has brought me such relief. He is okay. I miss him so desperately._

_I believe it was the Wizengamot's wont for Draco to be away from his family – away from the poison – so as to heal his soul. To speak with people like you, Miss Granger. Perhaps Muggles, even, to greater realise the potential of the whole world, not just our crooked little section of it. I hope he learns the lessons that I am learning from my sister, Annie, and her grandson, my grand-nephew, Teddy._

_Tell Draco to open his heart. That I love him. That he is good._

_Thank you, Miss Granger. I am indebted to you._

_Love,_   
_Narcissa_

Hermione's hands trembled as she folded the letter away, tears in her eyes. She was glad that Narcissa had Andromeda. That they were speaking. That she’d found comfort in baby Teddy Lupin. She loved her son so much. Hermione felt it deep in her chest from her words. She had to show this letter to Malfoy. To bring him comfort in the wake of his father's death.

She knew she was going against the Wizengamot’s ruling. She bit her lip, wondering if she was just risking too much to ease his pain. She would sit on it for a while. She had to process. She had to analyse.

-break-

She schooled her mind unrelentingly the next week, thinking of little else than a barrier around her mind, pushing outwards, away from her in pulses. As soon as he concentrated on her – if he made a habit of it, that is – he would know she was keeping something from him. She wondered whether he would try and talk to her. She found that no, he wouldn't. Perhaps prolonged eye contact across the Great Hall once or twice was all she would get.

As her peripheral vision caught him again, Ginny bounced up to her. “Harry's here!” she enthused. “I have to go to Quidditch practice, but he wants you to go down to Hogsmeade and meet him. I'll join you later,” she said, grinning, before hurrying out to go to the pitch before letting her reply.

She had planned on studying all day, but how could she pass up the opportunity to see Harry? Slinging her bag over her shoulder, she stood, drawing his eye again, she noted. She couldn’t look at him, knowing that she'd likely drop her walls, and if he so happened to be rummaging ... She still wasn’t sure sharing his mother's words was the right thing to do. No – that wasn't right. She did know. It was the right thing to do. The human thing to do. She just didn’t know if it was the legal thing to do.

She reached the Three Broomsticks, opening the door to the cosy pub, casting her eyes around for the shock of black hair. He spotted her first, hugging her from behind in a crushing hug. She laughed as he lifted her slightly.

“I've missed you,” he said into her shoulder.

“I’ve missed you too, Harry,” she said sadly, turning in his arms to hug him properly. After a beat, he drew back, giving her the once over, just like Molly did every time she saw her.

“You look thin,” he accused.

“So do you,” she volleyed.

“You look tired.”

“So do _you_.”

He took hold of her shoulders, his face twisting in his lack of defence. “Okay. I don’t have a leg to stand on here.”

“Nope,” she said, popping her ‘p', smirking at him. He smirked back, wryly.

“Butterbeer, then?” he asked, moving on. Hermione laughed, nodding. They headed to the bar, where Harry bought two drinks, and they found a table in the quiet pub. It was only half ten in the morning, so the hoard of Hogwarts students hadn't arrived yet.

“How is your training?” She asked, excited to hear about Harry's life that she'd missed.

Harry grinned bashfully. “Pretty great. It's tough, but Williamson keeps me right. He's a brilliant mentor. He doesn't let me off lightly. In fact, his catchphrase with me is ‘just because you killed Voldemort ...’, so ...”

Hermione laughed, shaking her head at his shrug. “Sounds like he’s not letting you play your usual hero card - that's good. It might make you a bit more sensible in tricky situations.”

“I doubt that,” Harry laughed. “How are you doing? How's school?”

“Yeah. I'm getting a lot done. My study schedule is well under way.”

“And you've been having fun too, right?”

“Sure,” she laughed awkwardly, and Harry frowned at her a bit.

“You promised,” he accused.

“I'm here for a reason,” she reiterated her words from months ago.

“But you still need fun.”

Hermione nodded, giving in. “I know.” She didn't tell him that the last time she'd felt like she was having fun, for a split second, was in the Room of Requirement with Malfoy, reading Bradbury and Kafka. She worried over this for a moment – something Harry caught.

“What's wrong?” He asked, concerned, dipping his voice below the quietness of the pub.

“Nothing,” she said, a little too quickly. Sadly, Harry was a bit too perceptive sometimes – only sometimes. He was far more observant than Ron, anyway. He raised both eyebrows at her, waiting for her to continue. “It's just different without you and Ron. My source of entertainment and distraction is gone. Ginny is always at practice. Neville and Luna, despite them always inviting me, need alone time together ... It's just ... different,” she finished lamely. She certainly wasn’t going to mention Malfoy to Harry, considering his last letter.

“I mean, trying to continually save my life was certainly a distraction, I suppose. I can't say I’m not glad that’s over, though,” he said, smiling lopsidedly.

“Me neither,” she agreed seriously, then laughed with him. “Things are just different, post-war, I suppose.”

He watched her closely for a moment, nodding. “We got too accustomed to mortal danger.”

She smirked, shaking her head at the table.

“So I have something to talk to you about,” he said after a pause. Hermione’s eyes found Harry's, whose looked serious. “Hence my reason for coming today.”

“Oh?”

Harry nodded grimly. “It's ... uh, it's Ron.”

“Okay ...” she prompted, worried about where this was going.

“He's scared to tell you himself, considering your history and ... well, since your fight, he thought it was more appropriate coming from me. Personally, I'd much rather he not be a massive coward and tell you himself like the adult he’s apparently supposed to be, but ...”

“Spit it out, Harry,” Hermione said impatiently.

“He's dating someone,” Harry said, going pink in the ears, avoiding her eye.

“Oh,” she uttered. She hadn’t been expecting that.

“He wanted to be sure it was a ‘thing’ before he mentioned it.”

“Oh,” she said again. Hermione was having difficulty feeling anything.

“Are you okay, Hermione?” Harry asked, voice laced with concern. He reached out to place his hand over hers.

She thought about that for a moment. She knew one thing: she didn’t feel ... cheated. And that thought surprised her. She had always thought that Ron and herself would end up together. She knew that they had been sort of an item before she had started school, but obviously with all of their fights, they hadn't been dating for a long, long time. More than anything, Hermione felt sorry. Sorry for missed happiness. For she knew she could have been happy with Ron. He looked after her. He was fiercely loyal. He was funny. She loved him. She did. But she knew she wasn't in love with him – even years ago, she'd known. He was just ... a very good source of comfort. She had needed that source of comfort, once upon a time. It made her sad to think that she hadn’t realised when she hadn't needed him.

“I am,” she answered, realising she hadn't responded to Harry, blinking. “I feel sad that he couldn’t tell me himself, though.”

Harry watched her for a moment longer, making sure she was okay.

“Honestly, Harry. I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Harry agreed eventually, believing her.

“Who is it?” she asked, suddenly realising he hadn't divulged that part.

He looked uncomfortable for a moment. “Verity?”

“Oh. The girl George hired?”

Harry nodded, glancing at her.

“Not what I was expecting,” Hermione commented.

“What were you expecting?”

Hermione shrugged. “I don't know. I guess I didn’t even think about it.”

Harry nodded in understanding, looking into his Butterbeer glass. “It came as a surprise to us all. We all thought he’d be in love with you forever.”

Hermione blushed, ducking her head. “Me and Ron were never meant to be?” she said, ending in an unsure question.

“I guess not.”

“Is he planning on talking to me about it at any point? Or is he going to send you in to fight his battles?” she asked, a little sore about the fact.

Harry shrugged, half-smirking. “He calls himself a Gryffindor, but he's absolutely terrified of you.”

Hermione chuckled into her glass. “Good,” she commented, and Harry laughed loudly.

After they settled, Harry looked at her seriously again. “So ... I promised Ginny I'd ask this, so don't hate me. You know how she is.”

“Harry,” Hermione said, stern.

“It’s ... I mean,” Harry blushed profusely, to the point where he was squirming in his seat. “Is it true? Malfoy?”

Hermione frowned in frustration and confusion. “What's true? What about him?”

Harry took his glasses off, swallowing, wiping his lenses with his shirt. “Ginny thinks you're ... you and him are a ... thing.”

Hermione was silent until he put his glasses back on. Her shock was plain on her face. “A thing, like dating?” she asked incredulously. “I ... can’t even process that.”

“So ... no?”

“No.” She was stunned that her friends thought this. They knew him. They knew his disdain for her through their teenage years – not just for her blood, but for everything else too. She was sure he would gag if the suggestion was made to him.

But he did ... there was that one thing he said in the little blue library ...

“Okay. I believe you.”

“His father died. He found out in the Great Hall at breakfast from a tabloid.” Harry nodded morosely. “No one deserves that, Harry. I just wanted ... I just wanted to make sure he was okay.”

“He doesn't have friends?”

Hermione shrugged. “I guess Zabini is. I'd never really seen them talk until this year. He seems to know a lot about him and his family, though.”

“His mother?” Harry asked with interest, the Malfoy subject thankfully dropped for the moment as Auror Potter took over. “Did he mention anything to you?”

“Not Zabini. Malfoy mentioned something about Zabini not really being remorseful for his mother's conviction, only the crimes she'd gotten away with.”

“That's interesting,” he said in thought. “The dead husbands, I figure,” he murmured down at the table, tracing the condensation on the outside of his glass.

“Dead husbands?” she asked, curiosity piqued.

Harry nodded. “She's been married seven times. All dead. She's somewhat of a Black Widow, although none have been proven to be murders.”

“Was the first Blaise’s father?”

“Third, I believe. An accidental pregnancy at any rate.”

“Wow.”

“He lasted the longest, for that reason, I suppose. He died in some potion explosion when Zabini was maybe ... 5? 6?”

“So he remembers him.”

“I suppose so.”

“That's awful.”

Harry nodded. “He was very helpful in the investigation when he was questioned. Even gave us the key to the Italy property. I thought it was suspicious at the time, but maybe it was that he was so far removed from his mother and the Death Eater movement that he genuinely wanted to help.”

“So it would appear,” Hermione nodded thoughtfully.

Harry nodded, before looking at her again. “So, I promised Ginny I'd head up to the pitch to watch after we were done. Shall we walk back?” he asked, swallowing the remainder of his Butterbeer. Hermione nodded, gathering her things. He gave her a one-armed hug on the way out of the door, brotherly and lovely and just what she needed.

“Thank you for being braver than Ron, Harry.”

“Not difficult, but no problem,” he replied, smiling lopsidedly.

-break-

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. And for your patience with me.


	9. Chapter 9

After Harry left her with another huge hug to head up to the pitch, Hermione made her way up the sloping lawns towards the castle.

It was a beautiful, but cold day out. She huddled her coat closer around her, facing out to the lake for a moment to enjoy the fresh air. Then she saw him. Blond hair like a silver beacon by the Lake, sitting in the grass. She frowned in worry, her feet already taking her there without her brain's consent.

He half turned when he heard her approach. He turned back to face towards the Lake before he spoke. “Granger,” he said in soft greeting.

Hermione bit her lip at his tone, warming the grass beside him with her wand, before taking a seat.

They sat in silence for a long moment, watching as shards of late winter sun shattered across the scintillating surface.

“I have something for you,” she said eventually, reaching into her bag, feeling the embossed paper under her fingertips. She held the letter in her hand, staring at it. Malfoy looked over and saw his family crest in her hands. He stared with her. She bit her lip again, harder, before handing it over with glittering eyes. He took the letter. She could see his hand shaking as he held it.

Without a word, he stood up, pacing forward toward the Lake, running a hand through his hair to make it stand on end as he read. For a horrible moment, she thought he might toss it into the Lake. Then she heard him sob. She bowed her head, not watching, giving him the privacy this moment deserved. She cast the Muffliato Charm for good measure. She didn’t want to impose on yet another emotional upheaval without his consent. It wasn't her place.

She sat alone for a long time, guilty and relieved. Breaking the rules for good - she'd always been an advocate of that.

She hadn't heard him move towards her because of the charm she'd cast. He sat next to her, still holding the letter, to her relief. He'd read it.

She didn’t look at him, knowing already what he’d look like. His expression would break her heart, and she couldn't bring herself to do it.

“I'm sorry I didn’t let you see it sooner,” she whispered before he could say anything. “I didn’t know what to do.”

He handed her the letter silently, with shaking fingers. He clasped them tightly in front of him once she had the expensive paper back in her possession.

After another beat, he said, “I don't know what to say.”

Hermione shook her head. “I know it wasn’t the same as talking to her – it isn't much comfort, considering ...”

“It’s everything.” His voice cracked on his last word, and Hermione closed her eyes, her brow knitting. Tears threatened to fall from her own eyes at his sincerity.

“I-I'll ... leave you to your thoughts,” she whispered. She stood up, hugging herself, and started back up the lawns before he could speak.

-break-

_Why?_  
_D._

The note had come like the rest – an intricate paper crane very late at night. Again, like their last note exchange, she thought it better to lay all her cards on the table.

_You both needed some comfort._  
_H._

She winced at her words. She fretted, worrying that he would reject her pity – her sorrow for him. He didn't accept help easily. That much she knew.

-break-

And that was the last time they spoke at Hogwarts. He didn't answer her. He stopped even looking in her direction. His face was blank if it was turned towards her.

At first, she had been angry. She had risked a lot to give him that letter. Not only could she have been expelled from Hogwarts, but she could have faced a hearing in front of the Wizengamot for interfering with conditions of his release.

Then ... well, she forced herself not to care for the good of her sanity. She had exams to pass after all. Her focus became her schoolwork again, and for that, she was thankful. Until the train ride back to London, she barely gave him a thought unless he was in eyesight.

And there he was. Leaning outside her compartment. She could hear Ginny inside and hoped she didn't see, as he looked at her, pain tightening the corners of his eyes.

“Can we talk?”

She bit her tongue, trying not to snipe something along the lines of “Sure! Four months ago.” Instead, she sighed, nodding in a weary sort of way. He looked at her seriously for a beat too long, before giving a short nod, turning and leading her to his compartment that he somehow had to himself. He cast Muffliato and Colloportus on the door. Hermione's hair stood up on the back of her neck. She didn't believe he would hurt her. But something caused the adrenaline to rush through her.

He turned back to her, not making eye contact. “I should have just ...” He dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated with something. “Granger ... I don't know what I am anymore.”

Hermione stared at him as he pulled at his hair, lost for words. Why was he telling her this? It was as though he was bringing her in half-way through a conversation. She was immediately disoriented.

“I always had this path. I had rules. Now I have nothing. And now my brain won't ...”

She bit her lip in concern, no idea what he was talking about. A flash of fire passed through him. She watched as it licked through his body and her eyes widened slightly. “I don't-” was all she managed, before his hands, hot, were on her hips, pressing her to the train window. She could feel his breath on her cheek as he paused. Her processing ability had left her as she waited, trembling slightly, shock freezing her to the spot.

“I –” His voice cracked as he trembled with her. And then he was gone. She stayed against the window, trying to breathe, unsure if he had been about to kill her or kiss her.

The door slammed behind him. She flinched. She sat silently in the compartment for several moments, trying to ... piece together anything. Trying to settle her rattled heart. He was confused. He didn’t know who he was. He didn't want something ... her? She was sure this was the case, but not in which circumstance. Perhaps it was conflict on whether the time in Azkaban was worth being rid of her. She took a shaky breath, before heading back to Ginny, Luna and Neville. Her last time on the Hogwarts Express tainted by thoughts of Malfoy. She had never thought this would be the case.

His eyes had been so ignited. It had been beautiful. Hauntingly so.

“Ron is coming,” she heard Ginny say. That snapped her out of her troubled reverie.

“What?” she asked, confused.

“I'm sorry. I thought you might not get on the train if you had known,” she answered guiltily. “Harry wanted to meet us at the station.”

“And Ron wanted to go with him?”

“Actually, yes. He misses you, even if he's too dull-headed to just speak to you like we've all been telling him to do for months,” Ginny replied impatiently. “I think he realises he was an idiot for getting mad at you for going back to school.”

“Yes. He was.” She frowned, wondering how she felt about seeing Ron after so long. She knew it was an inevitability – her plan was to live with Harry at Grimmauld Place for a little while until she got her own flat. Of course she was going to see him at some point. Still, she felt a little ambushed. Apparently that was a common feeling for Hermione presently. “Will his new girlfriend be there?” She asked pettily.

“Obviously not,” Ginny deadpanned.

She still felt like she was justified in being a little bitter – after all, he hadn't even told her. That had been months ago. Not even a letter to explain. She knew, of course, that she lay no claim to him. He had made it clear that moving back to Hogwarts meant breaking up. But even if there had been no romantic history between them, he was her friend, and she expected him to tell her about major life events.

“Look, I know it’s an awkward situation. But you’ll both get over it. Ron would have driven you up the wall if you had been in a relationship with him for any length of time – as much as I would have loved to have you as my sister.” Ginny sighed, leaning her head on her shoulder.

“Who says you’re not?”

Ginny smiled up at her. “Are you going to be okay at the station? You can apparate out if you really don't want to see him.”

Hermione shrugged as Ginny lifted her head from her. “I'll have to see him sometime.”

“He really does miss you,” Ginny said thoughtfully. “He's a dolt.”

“I can agree with that,” Hermione laughed. “I'm going to nip to the loo. We should be arriving in London soon,” she said as she got up.

As she made her way back from the bathroom, she almost fell into Zabini as he leant against the wall of the corridor a little ways along the carriage.

He took one look at her and his face dropped. “He didn’t do it,” he stated, sounding like it should have been a question, but he didn’t need the answer.

Hermione felt awkward, trying to duck past him. He caught her by the elbow.

“What is it with Slytherins manhandling me today?” She asked irritably. His eyebrows jumped into his hairline, but didn’t let her go.

“What happened?” He asked.

“With what?” She griped.

“The other Slytherin who manhandled you.” He had an odd expression on his beautiful face that Hermione couldn’t place. Not quite disappointment, but somewhere close.

Hermione paused, glaring at him for a moment, and pulled her arm out of his touch. He smirked a little at that. “None of your business, I expect, Zabini.”

“Hey, come now, Granger. I'm on your side here.”

“I hadn't realised there were sides in absolutely _nothing_.”

“Draco just needs a nudge. That's all.”

Hermione threw her hands up in impatience. “To do what? Murder me? I hardly think he needs to be encouraged.”

Zabini took a step back from her, likely expecting a slap. Which he deserved for making absolutely no sense. Or maybe he was genuinely surprised at her words? He was shaking his head. “Dear Merlin, give me strength. Of _course_ not. How much of an idiot _was_ he earlier?”

Hermione shook her head, still not understanding what the hell he was talking about.

He shook his head too, his eyes impatiently angry, before taking off down the corridor, his back straight and shoulders set.

She stared after him for a beat, before throwing her hands up in the air in impatience and heading back to her compartment.

-break-

Ginny squeezed her hand as the stepped off the train and onto Platform 9 ¾. Offering her an encouraging smile, Hermione couldn't help but return the expression. Harry found them immediately, crashing into them both and holding them tightly. Hermione had tears in her eyes as Ginny laughed, Harry bodily picking her up to twirl her around.

“I missed you so much,” he intonated into Ginny's hair. Her laugh sobered a little, and suddenly Hermione felt as though she were intruding. Behind Harry, Molly and Arthur stood, smiling, Molly itching to hug her daughter, but waiting for Ginny and Harry's moment to pass. Ron was looking at her. She met his blue eyes and felt herself blushing, looking away. He stepped towards her, brushing off his mother's grasp.

“I’ve been an idiot,” he said, simply.

She looked up at him. He was sorry. She could see that. She smirked. “That hardly makes a change,” she joked, trying to break his nervousness. He smirked back, shaking his head.

“Alright, you don't have to agree _that_ quickly.” She laughed at his defeat. He sobered as he watched her, and she did too at his expression. “I'm really sorry for being such an arse, ‘Mione.” She smiled in a melancholy way, before wrapping her arms around his neck and hugging him tight. “I really bloody missed you,” he sighed into her hair.

Over his shoulder, she saw them. Narcissa weeping into her son's shoulder as he held her tight, his eyes closed, the pain of their separation all over his face plain. Their exchange was harrowing. Hermione felt it settle somewhere at the bottom of her heart.

Narcissa, tears streaking her porcelain cheeks, lifted her head to look up at Malfoy's face, stroking his hair out of his eyes as he tried to smile, saying something which broke Narcissa's misery. Her face crumpled a few seconds later, tears overcoming her, and he held her again, stroking her back.

Hermione couldn't take her eyes off of them.

“I missed you, too,” she croaked, finally answering Ron's sentiment. He pulled back, holding her shoulders and grinned, kissing her forehead, before letting Molly and Arthur hug her. She had tears in her eyes as she tried not to look to the Malfoy’s. Just two people. A two-person family. Her heart clenched again.

He made eye contact.

Her breathing became a little shallower, unable to break the contact. The familiar feeling of legimency swept through her head. She barricaded some things. He spoke to his mother again, breaking contact, and she kissed his cheek, before looking directly at her. She glided over, dancing through the groups of people in their welcoming on the platform. Arthur looked at her questioningly, before pulling Molly away to talk again with Harry, Ron and Ginny.

Hermione anxiously awaited Narcissa’s arrival, unable to look at Malfoy. She didn’t have to look to see he didn't want his mother and her speaking.

“Miss Granger,” she announced, kissing her cheek gently. “Draco told me about your parents.”

Hermione had been trying not to think about their absence. Her heart broke.

“Darling, I'm so sorry.” The Malfoy matriarch actually looked discontented. It looked odd on her. Hermione just nodded, her words lost for a moment. Narcissa took her hands in hers. “You will have them back,” she told her convincingly. “I am certain of it.” Hermione swallowed her tears.

“Thank you, Ma'am.”

“Narcissa, please,” she corrected, giving her a gentle smile. “Draco appreciates all you did for us this year. You have made it bearable, this unbearable separation we endured, at our darkest time. He ... seems better,” she ended on a whisper. She looked at him. “More like himself than his father.” Hermione followed her gaze, landing on Malfoy and Zabini in heated discussion, just as Zabini pushed his shoulder and Mafoy threw him a dark look. “Less broken.” She paused, brushing one of Hermione's curls behind her ear and smiling softly. “I love my son. More than my own life. I always wanted a daughter.” Hermione watched the older woman, her blue eyes sparkling brightly. Her blonde hair looked other-worldly, different from Malfoy's silver-y white. Narcissa's hair looked as though it were made from the sun itself.

“Will you come to tea next week?” The woman even looked nervous to hear Hermione's answer.

She bit her lip. “I, uh ...”

“Your trepidation is warranted, of course.” She looked pained as she uttered, “My home was never the dark place you were captive in. I have ... altered. You wouldn't recognise it. I promise. It was a priority. Not that I had anything else to do in the last year,” her nervous, self-deprecating laughter foreign on a Malfoy. Nor the nervous chatter. “The gardens are quite lovely.” Her beautiful eyes were wide, pleading. Hermione's heart broke.

“I would love to have tea with you, Narcissa.”

Her smile shone like her hair. “Wonderful. Friday, 2pm?” Hermione bobbed her head, her heart in her throat, hoping beyond hope that Malfoy wouldn’t be there. Narcissa descended on her, kissing both cheeks, before looking back over to her son. He was resolutely glaring at Zabini as he spoke animatedly. “He knows other people's heads, but has no idea of his own,” she said long-sufferingly. “I should go and save Mr Zabini. I look forward to tea.” She have her hands a final squeeze and swept back over towards Malfoy. She turned back towards the Weasley's and Harry. Ginny took her hand, pulling her back towards the group.

“What-?”

“Later,” she cut Ginny off. She made an attempt at a smile and Ginny looked at her in worry. “It's a long story. One that will probably make you mad. Not tonight, okay?”  
Ginny nodded, but eyed her suspiciously.

His eyes met hers again. She barricaded, but he didn’t attempt. He just looked at her. There was sadness in his eyes. Desolation.

-break-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and for your patience!


End file.
